I’ve been reading Bukowski before bed. sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way New poems from a dead man. It won’t do for the painting on my easel but I’m searching for something. The one poem I loved so long ago when Francis bought this book. I am dead to her now and so she it to me too I guess. It is my biggest regret that great unknown thing that I did. So the Bukowski is fitting. It feels right. I can’t find the poem.