They think it's the booze.
The amber glass ashtray.
The word fuck dropped like a barstool kicked over.

They think if you drink publicly
and bleed adjectives on cigarette-burned carpet
you inherit the voice
like a dead man's jacket left on a bar chair.

But Bukowski measured.
That's what they never say.

He counted silence.
He broke a line where the breath actually failed.
He let white space do the work
of a punch he didn't need to throw.

He was not sloppy.
He was controlled ruin.

A man who knew
exactly when to stop talking
so the room would keep listening.

The ugliness wasn't random.
It was placed.
Like a cigarette burn
on a lover's couch you can't replace.

These boys-
they think volume is honesty.
They think crudeness is courage.
They think typing cunt / cock / fuck
in a Google Doc at 2 a.m.
means they've arrived.

They don't see the study.

          Did you know Bukowski read Céline?
          Dos Passos. Jeffers. D.H. Lawrence.
          Did you know he went through drafts-
          actual revisions-
          crossing out, tightening,
          listening for where the line snapped
          instead of sagged.

          Did you know he wrote every night-
          not when he felt like it-
          after eleven years hauling mail
          at the post office,
          he came home and worked.
          
          Kept carbon copies.
          Logged rejections in neat columns.
          Typed clean manuscripts.
          Sent respectful letters to editors.
          Professional. Timely. Courteous.
          
          The drunk was disciplined.
          The mess was a persona-
          carefully crafted,
          deliberately performed.
          
          He knew exactly what he was doing.

They don't see that rejection
is where the work begins-
not where you threaten the crowd
for not clapping.
Not where you send vulgar messages
to women writers in their DM boxes.
Not where you insult them / threaten them
when they reject you.

Bukowski took the no
and metabolized it.
Didn't demand the room love him back.
Didn't audit applause.
Didn't chase the women who walked away
with a manifesto in their inbox.

          He let refusal sharpen him.
          Not castrate him.

That's the difference.

The imitator feels cut
and starts swinging.
Mistakes denial for strength.
Mistakes aggression for voice.
Mistakes being unedited
for being real.

But craft shows.
Even when it's filthy.
Especially when it's filthy.

You can't fake restraint.
You can't counterfeit timing.
You can't shout yourself
into lineage
or fuck your way into the canon
with shock value and bourbon breath.

The poem knows
who did the work.
Who studied the masters.
Who broke their own lines
a hundred times
before they let one stand.

The rest is just noise-
spilling beer on the page,
calling it truth,
then crying plagiarism
when nobody quotes it.