It wasn’t his
Voice
Finally found
After fifty years
Of living
Dead

It was his
Imitation skills
Finely tuned
Honed
Down pat

Poetry, prose
Letters and
Madness
No original
Thought
Merely mimicking
Bukowski’s style

The scruples
Morals
By which he
Lives his
Life
Memorized passages
Dog-eared
Pages

Following
A script
Assuming a
Personal role
Worse than
Any
Fictional whore

Tinkering with
Lives
Pissing on
Souls
Watching emotionless
Counting the
Score

Take it off
The shelf
Read it once
More
Soulless bastard
Thinks he’s
Hank Chinaski