All Lovers Betray

reading Charles Bukowski poetry is like searching for dead anger dead lovers, gone forever, lost people cannot have relationships anymore, they're too time intensive too labor intensive when angry words are not deleted but must be worked sweated over like an August grave I don't know if I am sad or angry or something in between not born to it but grown into it the pathos of loneliness lingers texted, tweeted to a million FB friends i-phones buzzing in particular rhythms is not enough to make connection is not enough to form love or hate and another day begins like that song about Tom's Diner I am waiting for a picnic midnight or otherwise I am waiting on my corner building poems in the darkness now another cup of coffee now a train of thought to catch and I dream of all the voices