The Authors

I am Kerouac’s madness to live,

Transmitted through Tokay soaked

Pages on my bed nightstand.

I am Bukowski’s warm beer,

Spilling off the page and

Into my everyday living.

I am Woolf’s howl into the

Chauvinistic night of

My own room.

I am Hemingway’s bravado,

Steeped in the knowledge

That I write my truth.

I am Rand’s callous perfection,

Looking for new plots

In my funny atlas.

I am Huxley’s pursuit of

Transcendence, assisted

By my daily Soma.

I am not an author, but at

Least I may try to

Read and learn.