When Bukowski dies, he lies down with Emily
on her silver heel and writes of rainbows
and unicorns.���Or not.���No verses of virgins
and white horns for either, so what will be?
(Smart women avoid vomit pools of drunks.)
But he dies nevertheless
���������and in the afterlife, her tinkle of piss
into the ocean draws his thoughts away.

ALL IS BRIGHT in a warm plate of noodles;
God sings his song in a curry sauce. It comes down
to the nobodies, a pair of them. ��How dreary
to be somebody," Emily says and splits the tree,
quarters the sky. �Hank counters with,

������"The best say little, the worst too much."
��
Segments of blood angels � his dreams