I am in love with Dali.
in love with the man
who will not let me burn
no matter how I try to fight him
he paints with my ashes
with the lick of his paint brush.
I am in love with bukowski
the man who told me the heart roars like a lion
at what they’ve done to us at what they’ve
yet to do to us. is there any difference?
I am in love with shakespeare
the man who saw how ridiculous we are
and laughed at the tragedy, wept at the comedy
I am in love with vonnegut.
with tolstoy.
with nabokov.
I am in love with salinger because
god knows
they won’t love me back and isn’t
that the beauty of it?
I am in love with edgar allen poe
I like the way they say he died on the park bench
the empty vodka bottle to his side
the hollowness of it echoing my loneliness
i like to tell myself I loved these people
because they understood me
but they do not know me.
i know me.
i like to think i do.
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