…as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
…from “To The Whore Who Took My Poems,” by Charles Bukowski, which echoes my thoughts on the passing of another year, as I stand on the porch, swatting mosquitoes, and whispering about it behind it’s back. So long, year! Nice knowing you! Bring your own beer next time, yeah? Sheesh.