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

She watched the pendulum swaying; back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the incessant ticking once maddening now soothing, almost comforting; a constant beacon to cling to when the light faded and her world turned to black; but the beacon an illusion, just as time itself. A man-made tracking device used t

I came upon him in the woods; sitting on a bench nestled among a patch of wild ferns growing along the trail; dapples of sunlight playing on his face. I could tell, even behind sunglasses that his eyes were closed in quiet contemplation. Perhaps it was the tilt of his

His lunacy
His lies
His penchant
For debauchery

Life is his
Game
People merely
His pawns

To get what
He needs
Incapable
On his own

She was in the courtyard shucking oysters for the stuffing, when the old woman came shuffling out the kitchen door; her empty basket hooked over her arm, heading straight for the garden to dig turnips and pick fresh greens. It was the first time she’d accepted Trey and Nan’s invitation

She appeared out of nowhere at the stroke of midnight, as if having emerged from within the lake; a mirage of convenience, claiming to possess the key to get me back into the kingdom. Clearly taken aback at my hesitation, she promised to lead the entire way; guiding and navigating,

She thought he was an angel, swirling round her spirit; arousing a creative fire; igniting bursts of imagination and stoking profound inner realizations. She breathed deep, a sigh of relief, at having connected with one so astute in realms that piqued her interests; then as if daring her to be