Hunched over a typewriter
fifty zebras swatting flies
laughing at the sawdust
wiping his eyes
It's how I picture
Charles Bukowski
violins playing and each time the
typewriter
dings
it's an epiphany
again
and
again
silent like a church
bells ringing in his mind
far away
from the gaze
of critics
and fools
wading in a river
of his own creation
fish biting his toes
splashing
in the morning
rain
as the sun rises
burning up the forest
with each passing glance
The muses running through the trees
dressed in white
flowing dresses
as they scatter
and hide behind
the letters spread across the page like grain
and the idea is eaten.
a new page
goes in.