no meat just bones for words poem

I met a genius on the train today we came to the ocean and he said, it's not pretty Bukowski

yesterday, i felt like that old man
fishing in the sea and hauling up fish bones
today, i feel about the same
cause i just wrote another poem
with a great, big title
written in great, big words
and when i opened the page
nothing, but empty
well, not really nothing, not really empty
there was a word there, more of a twig than a branch
and the word that followed it,
a throwing stick chewed raw by an angry dog
and the gist of it, a broken log half-buried in the sand,
hollow in the middle, and rotted-gray on the outside,
and beat to death by wind, water and rain
but i don't care cause its my log,
my dog, my twig
the log fell on the dog and broke its twig