Irrelvant

Irrelevant

We are here on the typer

That Bukowski mentions

Except mine is a bit more

Technology

Technology

Technology

I also don’t drink like I used to drink 

At every bar

Or like Bukowski

I suppose it’s a shame

I have no chemical inspiration

And no doubt

Your notice of my bad poetry

I have to write

I have to communicate 

Anything to the universe

And uninspired on every level

Something artificial could

Do better

But that's not me

I breathe and I

Think with flesh

You may dispute that

You have my permission

There is jazz music in the background

That's inspiration from the 1950s and 1960s

Which means I'm not relevant

I get that

On this yellow checkered table cloth

Beneath a ceiling fan

Salt peanuts

Salt peanuts

Thank you Dizzy

Barry G. Wick