Dear Charles Bukowski,

You are my favorite drunk, poetic bastard

You gambled with women

and I heard your breath reeked of cigarettes and whiskey

I am writing to you, you see Mr. Bukowski

I used to write poetry to get into girls pants

I settled down and got married and haven’t written an honest poem since

So I write, for you, asking for you help.

send me some crude whiskey soaked words

Send some panty dropping inspiration

send me something to get me through the hours

I need you more than ever Hank

Your biggest fan

ASM