he can imagine the jizz on the book spines, running down the bukowski and palanhuik.
bukowski would be proud but he'd probably say to stick to the beer and wine.
wake up in the early afternoon with your body aching and a feeling of despair,
his back is like a smooth pebble that's been worked over by the sea one two many times.
i could tell it's been through hell but the smooth tautness makes me forget.
i lean in to whisper into his ear, "hello."
he tells me that he could live to be four hundred and still not know what life is about.
waking up each day somewhere new knowing that life is unpredictable and fucked up.
it seems to drag on like the the weight we carry with us all our lives:
expectations, hopes, desires, letdowns and regrets.
"everything will continue"