Bukowski and Pollock

The subtle, underlying taste of butane
through the filter of my cigarette
I sit in a chair
across is the blood shot eyed,
stair of my future.

We exchange casual conversation.
After all, I, like many others
Cannot change the inevitable.

No matter how talented of a writer
or artist I become.

No matter how many Bukowski poems I read,
Pollock paintings I study.

It won't happen anyway.

So I stay up until 5 or 6 in the morning.
(I'm a petty insomniac in training)
Hoping to drive myself mad,
like most writers and artists before me.

Meanwhile,
I live off food stamps,
And manage to pay rent with them somehow.

After all,
I am clever.
But clever doesn't get you published,
Or a gallery featuring your work.