Eyes wet, eye strain
through blinding pain
in all but vein
my trite refrain...

No matter, I'm saved
from a death worse than fate
the mere sight of your name
lends my poem some weight.

I'm seduced by your facility
to engender credibility
by apotheosis, jealousy
or indulgence of your ministry.

Ok--let's be pragmatic
put the toys back in the attic
scour the basement for the reason
you are constantly in season

...

Several research hours later
I have yet to find, besides
inverse sub-cultural disfavour
why your work is sanctified.

Just me, I guess; a mortal hack
complaining at my utter lack
of gifted voice and matching fingers
drumming whilst your echo lingers.

Maybe you were just a freak
right face, right place, rye time technique;
or thread of genius set free
to screw its place in history?

Reluctantly
I drop your name
into my lame apology
for poetry, its claim to shame
reflected glory, bathed in fame.

And so I wait
for
the
inevitable
a miracle
a transformation
obscurity to celebration.

Charles Bukowski; you're a star
though still I wonder what you are.

07/29/2011

Author's Note:
Edited 11-03-14 [UK]

Posted on 11/04/2011
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