It all started at the Bukowski's bar on the corner of cirrhosis street

tumbling on
piss soaked asphalt
I bruised my creative veins

words bleeding from
thumping thesaurus capillaries
paint pages that never leave libraries

thirsty for a muse
I dragged polished books
to the corner of cirrhosis street

shining in black and white
a hunched hobo with a bible quote
smiled toothless at the bar's turnstile

"Drop your best poem here
artists have nothing to fear"
He said, pointing to a pot of verses

rummaging through memories
I crumpled my art into a spiky ball
to pay for passage through my lyrical Styx

a prostitute painting contused lips
carpet soaked with spilled humors
welcomed my nose to Bukowski bar

a faceless bartender filled a glass
with gold and pointed me to an ill lit corner
evading broken glass, I reached a rickety table

sweating rhymes as a typewriter chimed
an old man smoking with brush back hair
placed a rugged hand on my jittery shoulders

"You seek the muse
that ignites a fuse,
carefully you must choose
so in the end you don't loose" he said

taking a swig from a golden bottle
he studied my eyes for many moments
and advised in a tone known to many artists

"Write for the right reasons and also
for the right people, don't go for gold,
there's plenty in the afterlife but there aren’t
right reasons or people once you’re gone”

With that he disappeared in a fog of
stale tobacco, I ardently search
for the right reason and person

till this day, hoping to be sought
posthumously like that
smoking old man.
©clichepenname