but I never mailed it
what’s the point

the guy is dead

would his carcass crack open a beer
his rusty smith corona clack
beneath skeleton hands
while he searched for a book
of matches to light a  cigarette


the whole exercise is silly


anyone can write like Bukowski
all you have to do is bleed

Selected byNolcha Fox
Image credit: Luke Southern

I’ve been writing poetry since I was a little kid. I think that poetry is probably my native language. In my best work, I think that I’m able to create something that feels like truth. If you find something in my words that move you, something that makes you smile , something which gives you pause for reflection , then I’m grateful. I sell real estate from time to time, and in moments of grace or despair, joy or terror, times of wonder and gratitude, I sail about in my good old ketch , Further.

Further - a distance that can’t be measured.