Reading Poetry

Reading poetry unlike Charles Bukowski I have not done yet. Though I fear we think to much alike. It is a fear I some what like. His fingers thick and blunt like his speech. Drinking with him, don't pretend. Sweat is sweat, for drink a woman and the rent. Pretentious females coming to hear him sweat as he speaks Watching. Knowing and all they know was a kindness they could not forget. I am to old now for that as I have not yet heard one of mine. Maybe in solitary all alone I would read one for you so it could be read right. And who do you think she in the mini skirt is old and as old as I am I am young enough to look but not touch. Too touch the middle is hard work for me just a dab just quick breath blown across so it breaths. Where with Charles and I laugh perhaps the finger is all you would need. Still there's Jane, what would you make him do for that bottle of wine. Where with me I would lightly tap and tap until l you grew humid and my tree I'd keep strapped to my knee. Though across the clouds the friction on the cotton would bring tears to your face and I would just fall asleep and who would come back for more of the same who I ask, 'but who. Which one would you have me read to you. Being first in line with your hand held out, to whom.