He’s rough and says ****. He writes
about real stuff. He writes about ***
and drugs, cancer and urban living. He’s
not afraid to tell you about his carousing

ways. He gets right to the point, doesn’t
care if your noise is out of joint. He’ll
probably chuckle at that.  An editor told me
that I reminded him of Bukowski. I took

that as a compliment. And why shouldn’t
I? I can be as gruff as the next guy, writing
about ***** and ****, alcohol and mentally
unstable parents. Unlike those other

poets that only write about sunshine
and roses. They don’t dive into the salt
and the flesh, nothing that stands out as
a mess. Only sweet perfume on every page.

I gauge it they haven’t lived much of
a life anyway.