who's looking over my shoulder on a rainy morning?

The coffee tastes like shit
this morning
two days after a miserable
bout with heartburn,
handsful of Tums
and a pocketful of promises:
no more Arthur Treacher's anything & chips,
no more ex-huband's gourmet cuisine,
thank you very much,
I'm going back to the drawing board
it's sunrise at the oasis,
and my camel is spitting mad,
I can live on figs and dates,
fruits & veggies
I'll forgo the rotting flesh

and if you thought we could
live together in our old age,
well, goes to show how wrong you are,
just like I was back then, when I
thought you were the answer to the question,
who do I love and where
do I go, if not the Jersey shore,

here it is after all these years
of a cock-eyed dream
and nothing has changed
it's later than even I would
think,
the vultures of Hinckley
wait,
patient
for my paprikash-flavored bones
and the ravens of Independence
seem even more argumentative
at 5:30 in
the morning,
it's raining
and my sinus headache
is gaining intensity
I'll make no promies
as I promised
I'll ask no more questions and
I'll wait for no lies, for no one
to take me anywhere

my wisdom teeth are finally growing in
this poem a fig leaf
to cover up explanations,
thought balloons bursting
like froth
like waves
washing rocks over graves

Bukowski's looking over my shoulder
whispering sweet nothings in my ear,
I see his sad-eyes,
his lips crooked with grief,
I see his glorious demented
Reality,
sigh
once or twice,
inhale,
exhale.