borges

the way Borges
makes subtle claim

that past is the thing
memories are made of
and birthed from

the womb of the tomb opens

very wide either to swallow us inside
its void, where lonely wanderer's
dreams hide,

or to regurgitate us out into an unnerving,
never-ending fate

it's hard, as of late, to remember

you're lucky simply to be alive
for the first and last time

bukowski

stupid people don't get
educated

he laughed at me

from the corner of his cheek
dripping with nacho cheese-

it's almost the end of the month
it's the beginning of next week

and rent is due too soon

so you sit there, in your green seat,
an orange chair, cushioned
and creaky

drinking coffee
and learning

about quantum mechanics
and string theory- nothing;

I'm looking forward to
inebriated Bukowski
bedtime stories
and dreaming

with eyes wide
open

of a key

to let me
into an alternate form
of reality or

the other side of lonely