Bryan Bukowski

The ideal public perch for this dawn-lit tryst.
The eternally bent glare, singeing flung shadows,
placed in encroaching perfection over southern banks.
A sun-struck chill against hands held tight,
...

Asleep with my thoughts counting eight hours a day.
Feet raised up from the floor made light from a dawning night.
A chance to retreat from obedient herds, pressed from social routine.
Qualms resolving, answers arise with resting ease (through resting eyes) .
...

Have been drinking now for months, though the weeks can't tell apart.
Abandoned sleep, sour heads, a haze and confusion.

It doesn't feel like morning, yet the light is burning at the curtains.
...

Drunken cellars attracting the quirks of the socially shunned
build foundations for the gracious soul of this liquored town.
Sneered by the up-town gloss for it's putrid air, stagnant underfoot,
And stealing each weekend to resolve a dissolving character.
...