Crown of Age

With old patterns faltering In the wake of time Serving him less and less Desperation creeps Then slowly sets in Searching for something Real to cling to In a world of illusion And cheap parlor tricks Of which he created And has always dwelled Better to be An imaginary somebody Than a real nobody His

Richard II

They don’t all float down here, as his mantra would have you believe. Some wrap themselves intentionally, in the dispirited darkness; fighting natures buoyancy that would raise them toward the light. He thrived on being the outcast, for he knew not how to fit; emitted false illusion, so as to sway opinion and perceptions. But

The Hyena

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 Dog-eared Pages Following A script Assuming a Personal role Worse