I drink with Ernest Hemingway

and Charles Bukowski

we get bored

and prank call

Richard Brautigan

he gets really excited

and plays along

for as long as we want

we all should be writing

but its get busy living

or get busy dying

i dig nothing these days

but graves

of my old friends

who are all dead now

and have been for sometime

i wonder if they are alive

and its me they dig

i still have dreams

and they have dirt

two suicides

and a fallen angle

and me

with my mystery

unwritten

two out of three writers

will end

with the same

Remington steel

that makes typewriters

in the form of shot guns

in your mouth

no more words

in punching

the one perfect key

destroying

any blue birds

in your rib cage

the beast in me

i try to hide

beyond the birds

sometimes we laugh

down the path

of peril

left with epitaphs

and private eye’s

don’t try.