He was a rough and tumble artist, cut from the Bukowski cloth. A two-fisted drinker, he rattled off poems late in the night when the madness overcame him. His bloodshot eyes spoke to the fire that burned from within and from which he, finally, burnt out.
A small, but steady, group of pilgrims continue to visit his grave. There are times, they claim, they can feel the heat of his spirit.
from the pit
Haibun Today Sept 2016