Sitting on my porch reading
while righteous men walk towards a chapel.
Doing their semi-annual duty to hear the words of God.
Bukowski's words are keeping me company,
stories staring Chinaski
about hangovers, debauchery, liquor, women, and, of course, delivering mail.
It's a nice contrast
since he's the opposite
of each of these men walking past in a pressed white shirt & tie,
aiming for access into heaven.
And I'm not saying it's a bad thing, if it works for them.
It's just, like Oberst, if I go to heaven
I'll be bored as hell
cause it's the Bukowskis, the Thompsons, and the Hemingways,
the Plaths, the Vonneguts, and the Keroaucs
who have anything interesting to say.
So maybe I should give debauchery & depravity another try.
Cause if I'm destined for an eternal fire,
I'd better bring some stories that can compete.
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