between the 9th and 10th beer on Bukowski's death day

that’s how it is
the tears run down the face
of the ocean like a mad horse
tearing loose from it’s rider
until you’re staring
at nothing at all just the glimpse
of her face and the hatred
in a pair of eyes. that’s
nothing, just a frantic
wailing of simple fools
that didn’t know enough to
get out of the way when she
came riding through town.

all i wanted to do
was take a walk down the street
but pretty soon i figured out
that everyone was just as crazy
as I was and that we had nothing
to offer each other. the addict
on a bike almost ran me over.
the girl who was nearly beautiful
from far away
had a bit of a smashed up face
a large dark birthmark on her jaw
and smelled of cheap strawberry
perfume. the kind that makes a man
recoil or choose to accept his fate.
but i had to walk
until i wasn’t on trial anymore.
the day had begun badly
and i needed to get it off my back
so I did
and the sun was very bright outside
thankfully, the sun was bright and high
even though it is still winter
and there wasn’t a cloud at all
just like a morning in spain
without the scent of jasmine.

that’s how it is.
i wasn’t looking for anything
not even for a word or a bit
of advice and thankfully
nothing found me, no one on the street
noticed or cared how mad I looked
or wondered why I lacked
a warm coat to protect myself.
some day
i might be dying in the street
and they won’t notice then either
but that’s it
what we get
the freedom of not being known
except by the ones
who love us
or hate us.