I had a dream I was waiting at the bus stop, and Charles Bukowski circa 1975 or so walks up to the bus stop and sits down next to me. He asked me if I was a poet, and I pulled my notebook out of my purse and handed it to him. He flipped through, reading my poetry, and he said, "Baby, your poetry sucks. Want me to tell you why?"
I nodded my head, so he continued, "You use words. Poetry can't have words."
Then he got up and walked away with my notebook.
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It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
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