I’ve said it before that I hate my poetry, but I think I need to keep doing it. I think I’ve said that before too, but what the hell. I need it. It’s the most honest stuff I’ve ever put down when I think about it. Maybe I’m just talking about today, and the revelations I’ve been having lately. Maybe they’re less of revelations, but more of matter-of-fact realizations. I can’t say they’re the same things right now.
After reading Bukowski, I’m finding more honest and gall within, and putting it down. I think that’s a good way for me to do this thing called writing. I’ll edit these poems soon, and compile it into something I’ve been talking about for sometime now, that collection I’ve spoken about . I’m happy about it. I realized I wanted to write some poems today while I was enjoying a cigar, waiting to pick up some shoes from the cobbler. It was in Soho. I went to visit a friend at a store later that evening and had some espresso, and my head started to hurt. Don’t know if it was the drugs or not (caffeine and whatever else is in tobacco) but I felt some sort of painful high and thought about Florida and life and I felt inspired.