Born a weed until time arrived

in form of woman who seeing the sun decides not to dim life bursting in lungs

Braided grass swaying in plains turn locks of love,

bleached the brown of my grandmother’s youth.

What Charles Bukowski didn’t say

False attributions spring eternally.

The Houston Press asks who the verifiable author of the following quote is:

My dear,

Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain from you your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you, and let it devour your remains.

For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.

Falsely yours, Henry Charles Bukowski