Hey Bukowski,
You know the poem you wrote?
About wanting to be a writer?
How if it doesn't spill
From your guts,
Then don't do it?
Well, *******!

Not all us
Poets are street-corner
Prophets spewing in lyrical tongues,
Made of alliterations and metaphors.

For some, the poem
Is agonizing.
A slow-burn cancer,
That eats at our minds, our souls
Seeping out the walls.

It doesn't burst forth like some jail break;
More like that guy, from the movie with Morgan Freeman,
Who crawls through miles of ****
Just to get to freedom.

My poems may look
And smell
Like ****;

It may have taken them a while
To crawl to freedom.
But they did.

Humility and Humiliation
Are first cousins of a sort.
When they roll off my tongue,
They seem identical twins, or
If not siblings
At least sharing some common ancestry.
But after they flee my mouth,
The resemblance ends.

Humiliation is designed by others
Their words twist, morph, bend, break.
Until the face I see,
When I look in the mirror,
No longer belongs to me.

Humility, however,
Comes from within.
No tongue can give it life,
Not even my own.

Humility is an acceptance,
Not a rejection,
Of who I am,
Who I am not.

To be
Humble,
Is to simply
Be.

You create art
Using the sharp edge
Of a multi-hued blade.

The blade
And your eye
Slide down the canvass

Canvassing for something
I don’t know what.
Something only you can see

I’m fascinated
And, Truth be told,
Not a little envious.

I want to see
What you see.
Know what it is like
To see the void
And the darkness
To pierce them with color
And to sit back
Look at your creation
And see
It is good.

My students
Sit listening to jazz
As they write and work

First,
They resist.
Crying out,

Why are you torturing us?
How can that be music?
Where are the words?
Please put it on something new!

I begin to notice
The year goes on,
Student's feet tapping
Pencils scratching,
Heads bobbing
In time with Trombone Shorty.

Who's this?
What's this song called?
Play it again!

I can't the song has
Moved on. Now
Here is another one, older
Guy named Davis.

They don't like
Him as much,
I don't care though.
All I hope is
Miles' trumpet
Blows away
Those nonsense lyrics
They think are music.

I’ve always believed
That we learn more from authors
We hate rather than love.

Far too often,
We take the proffered morsel
From a loved one’s hand
And never consider its value and substance.

From one we despise though,
We observe and inspect the bit,
Seeking any flaw or crevice. Learning all the way.

A small twist of fate
Changes the language
I'm writing this in.

When my friend died that night,
In the room next to mine,
Did I hear his death rattle?

Did my subconscious mind,
While I lay sleeping, dreaming
Record some small part of
His short life ending?

Did his soul,
On its way to wherever
It was going, stop by,
Give me a jaunty wave
As it faded out the window?

Or did my soul sleep
Peacefully, all that night,
Unaware of the transformation?

Caressing my face,
Bubbles rush to greet me
Tickling like a sweet spring sigh.

This is only the first.
I am still half
A visitor. Stuck in suspension
Between this world and mine.

Slowly I pass
Through the threshold.
My air-sick ears adjust
To the sounds of the sea.

I stare down
At the small colony
On the sea floor,
My landing gear is down.

Customs arrives.
A grey, French Angelfish
Of the most industrious kind.
But he isn’t obtrusive.

As he flits in and out
Checking my bubbles
Ensuring I am not bringing
Any more air than I should.

No doubt he will stay near
Most of my stay
I have finally arrived,
The coral city stretches before me.

I catch the current trolley
And it whisks me past
Rocky storefronts and coral motels.
Lobster shopkeeps

Rush out of dark
Stores and stand in the street
Giant claws raised
Toward me in supplication.

Beckoning me to come
And browse his wares
While a fish I don’t know
Is busy cleaning homes and stores.

They must’ve dropped out of the school
Which passes by
The pupils in matching uniforms
Of flashing silver and black.

Clown fish wave
To me from their Lawns
Of sea anemone
Before darting back inside.

Here is the kind of place
Where I could put down roots.
Live out an idyllic life
Living in a coral townhouse.  

But for me to stay
Would be severely fatal.
I’m just a visitor
And my visa is about to expire.

I look back one more time
As my head breaks the surface.
The sun stings, I blink.

It infuriates me.
It rejuvenates me.
It frustrates me.
It creates me.
It kills me.
It fills me.
It weakens me.
It strengthens me.
It deceives me.
It receives me.
It IS me.

The blank page,
A Rock on a hill;
The suspended landslide.
Physics taught me
Of kinetic and potential energy.
I just want to unleash it.

Cow **** and frost,
Wood smoke and spice.
Cologne and starch,
Vanilla and public schools.
Soap and cotton,
Sweat and coffee.
Wet dog and cut grass,
Hot, soaked cement.
Sea salt and sand,
Coconut scented lotion.
*** in a Sonic Cup,
Cigarette down to its ****.
Horse **** and hay,
Gunpowder and beer.
These things don't match,
Sure as hell don't rhyme;
But that's ok,
They're all mine.

My father's old Cadillac,
"Betsy", was an old champagne color,
With fabric that hung from the roof
As Betsy carried us
From our small East Texas town
To a slightly bigger town that
Actually has a Luby's

Garrison Keillor's "Prairie Home Companion"
Is coming through the dulled speakers,
As it does every Saturday evening.
I lay my head against the cool glass of
My window in the back seat and
Close my eyes and listen to Keillor's
Crooner voice softly and gently take
Me to the shores of Lake Woebegone.

I loved the stories of Lake Woebegone
Before I knew it was not a real place.
Before I even realized the name
Was itself a pun.
I still do,
But back then I would listen
And imagine moving and
Living there one day.

My father eventually
Sold Betsy to the only
Place in town that would
Take her,
A junkyard.

I'm not sure what he saw
In that old Cadillac
But whatever it was
Stuck with him.
Betsy's hood ornament sits
On his mahogany desk in his office and
Overlooks the bay.