Yesterday I heard,
through bleaming paper and speakers like a thorax,
how Buckowski never enjoyed letters.
How they would never make him feel better;
feel better about clutching a full, whiskey botttle
inside and empty room;
how frustratingly un understandable they were,
from waiting so long under the rain,
without an envelope, like undressed African children.
How no one could ever feel empathy,
because, empathy is a lie;
an excuse to not make fun of those
who’s consciousness got lost deep inside their eyes.
I thought, then, how
I love the way cigarettes burn my hands,
the way fire leaves bruises on my finger.
(oh, how we all love pain!)
It hurts more, though, knowing he wrote a drunken text.
I wonder, then, how
it would feel like to be Buckowski.
How it would feel like to be the drunken one,
receiving sober texts, sober letters.
How it would feel like to burn someone’s hands,
to leave bruises on someone’s finger.
I remember, then, how
Buckowski killed himself.
And I think;
I shouldn’t aspire to be Buckowski.