On Whitman’s Children

I have to read something
over and over again
before I understand it.
A Bukowski poem – a sensualist, a shit
disturber – I mean, is he so profound or
am I just an idiot?

I want to be like them
and know I never will, no matter
how dissipated I become.

All I want is my own little
piece of Truth,
and that is my big mistake.

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