an almost poem

and as our grief falls flat and hollow upon the billion-blooded sea Bukowski

i almost made up a poem about drinking
from a fountain in the middle of france
cause you wrote a letter to me
and i never heard from you again

i'd like to say i sort of liked your letter
written in that crazy CAPITAL LETTERS
heavy hearts in the corners
you pressed so hard
how many pencils did you break?
did i say fountain in france?

i like the way you remember to
remember GOD, even though god is dead
so i've been told, and so sometimes i wonder
when i wake up and the morning is still dark
and the whole city is still asleep
is GOD asleep too? how about those ANGELS
you wrote about? are they asleep or just dead like GOD?
i think the way you think
GOD took his own life

should we blame him?
look at us, look at you, look at me?
maybe, i'll feel better if i write
so i'm writing a poem about drinking
water from a fountain in france
and throwing it in the water
there's a little river two streets away
drains into a bigger river, then the sea