i think of how much of a miserable creature
bukowski was in the prime of his life
moving from job to hooker to liquor to beating his wife
weeping like a giant baby, half-naked on a bug-infested couch

and here i am, thinking this
while sitting in a chair brought from the midwest
by a girl with no sense of direction, but perfect breasts
writing out painful facts in brief facebook messages

and the poem turns against itself again
mid-sentence with the opening movement of a cellphone ring
trapped into the half-naked knowledge of not knowing anything
not about bukowski nor women nor painful facts