To hell with it all. To hell with the Ghost of Charles Bukowski. To hell with Tortelli. To hell with Zigman Zibanski and the mendicant Boyce Boswell. To hell with it all. Posing, prosing like Ginsberg, as feeble attempt as it is. There's more: the incontinent devil in haemorrhoid rage from a$$ crack burning in sulfate flame. There's more: the hellish hep cat in imitative prose and bellied fur balls curled up in bewitched corners of the mind. Nah, to hell with it. Hear me, to hell with this and that and two fingered posting on one-eyed keyboards. Blogger's lament. Characters created and foiled. Unread. Treated to anonymity on a landless highway stitched on a devil's tail. To hell with it for now. Till I blog next. To a heaven's command. To a Ghost, to a Tortelli, to a ZZ and to words not seen.