I don't blame Tim for being a catalyst; calling eight years after the fact to tell me he still sees me, to tell me I'm beautiful, to tell me he is still enamored of my alabaster orchids that grow on the moon.
I blame Bukowski. That maniacal, that simple genius. to the whore that took my poems always stuck with me... was it War All The Time? I remember it so fucking well.
'as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
Fuck me, ain't that the truth.
I'd like to lie to myself and say it's buried or trapped or neglected but, it isn't. It's gone: evaporated. It used to flow out in cryptic crimson that stained and remained and now it's simply not there. I could be grateful I got my Magnum Opus out then, all three parts of the Eros, but that's gone too, left behind one of those times when I shed my skin.
What is left is bitter because it remembers being something better than still remains.