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bukowski wouldn't read goethe on the side of the railroad. what was i thinking. i had it all wrong. bukowski wouldn't be wandering around on these boyhood erotica railroads either. i suddenly felt very self-effacing. why was i carrying this stupid book. bukowski wouldn't carry a book around with him. why am i listening to headphones. bukowski wouldn;t do that. and why am i smoking this weed? people who smoke that shit are stuck in the sixties! i wasn;t born until the 80's.i hate peace .i wish there was a war so i could have an excuse to kill people, act like a lunatic, and most importantly, have something to do. there will be another one. it;ll be like the superbowl. why was i wandering through this stupid graveyard? gravestones look kind of like husks of people buried up to their wastes, or likeness of people, standing in queue declaring their name. bukowski wouldn;t be walking through a graveyard in ohio. there's a gravestone with the name "ida hill" on it. bukowski Would oogle that blond girl half dressed a little moist on her boyfriend's meat hook. i gave some kid with a dog a cigarette. i walked out of the graveyard and into a small valley where the railroad drew. i sat on a pile of wood, and smoked a bowl of weed. bukowski wouldn't be sitting around in the middle of nowhere puffing on weed all aloof. i decided to proceed. a train went by. i remembered seeing a photo of bukowski in his younger years standing in an open train car. i lept on the slow moving train. "doesn't anyone have a beer?" i thought and smoked. i sat on the moving train for an hour. people saw me. we stared into each other's eyes. it was dark when i jumped into the bushes. a doberman strut by me. my eyes glazed over. it didn't notice me. maybe it was blind. i didn't know where i was. i smoked weed. bukowski wouldn't get lost at night riding on some fertilizer coal train. i walked along. deer and possums. raccoons dove out of piles of rubbish. cats. guys prowling around like pimps in their burgundy coaches. old drunk men on the porch smoking tobacco in the dark with their wives in the brown indoor lamplight stuffing her face and watching reruns and the little ragdoll getting fucked like a blow up doll in some collapsing foundation near the university with the weedsmoke pitchfork and lucid in the tenebrous gut teeth solvent darkness asking for the guy in the corner in between slurps. i walked into an italian restaurant. i slapped the white dust of my jacket. old women light up seeing me, and i ask the waitress something. i sit at the bar. i look at the waiter's hips. the waitresses look at me. the kids fumble and contribute to the noise. i look at the bottles of wine behind the bar longingly. the waitresses look at me. i look around the place. casually dressed families. there was a lot of noise. not a single person smoked. the place stunk like a prom date. what would bukowski do? i pinched the waitresses ass, and she gasped and looked at me, a glass fell over, and the noise lull with about a dozen faces boring into me."
doesn't anyone have a beer?" i said.

then i left. bukowski probably would have done that in my situation. i pulled my pork skin and chicken bones down the fastfood prophylactic cabbage wrapped streets. it was raining. the rain was dirty. it streaked on my face and my hair turned from bedsprings into wire .i was annoyed. i was high. a car passed. i sat on a stone. bukowski wouldn't sit on a stone. i got up and walked back to the railroad. i sit in some remote bushes and smoke weed and listen to the radio. bukowski wouldn't go to sleep. i stayed awake and gradually lost my mind. bukowski wouldn't stay up and gradually lose his mind. i wished i had a lantern to play with. i wished i had some firecrackers. i wished i had a women who was three feet tall, so i could crush her with my body. i'm sick of seeing midgets everywhere although they are good luck for travelers. bukowski wasn't a goddamn midget. if i couldn't have a six year old girl a midget would be the next best thing. phonelines. a squirrel up in the tree above me scratching around. sounds like someone stuck in the tree trying to scratch their way out. maybe i could poke a hole in the tree and fuck them. or promise them release upon my release. exhaust pipes guzzle by. i smoke weed. i smoke a cigarette. coquettes danced around in my head with blood trickling down their tiny snow white legs. angrily i crushed a can with a stone. i laid down. i squeezed my dick. i fell asleep. bukowski often fell asleep.

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