Bukowski

Jon Vreeland - Poet-Writer-Human

I met you in the county jail.
Your honesty was something
I hadn’t heard,
not from anyone in a long long time.
You were someone I believed.
Someone who’s seen a thing or two,
even without money,
who fucked a woman or two.
You scared people with your drunkenness.
Your rancorous eyes. Youthful punch.
You got me through those ninety days of
potential sleepless nights, 
in the dorms with a hundred other men
farting
snoring,
lying about their girlfriends,
(the ones they didn’t have)
while you told the truth about your boils,
decades of unwanted virginity,
your dreadful dad and hangovers.
The Inmates asked every day:

“what you reading Jonny?”

“Nothing don’t worry about it.”

Selfishly, I didn’t introduce you to the other inmates,
to them you’d only remain a stranger,
and I wanted you all to myself.
Nobody understood your pain like I did.

At 5 am…

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