He who walks
Will find that
The stinging
summer sun
Leads the loved ones
Over clear waters.

Beneath elegant
Palm trees
That when time to
Take a break
It creates a shade
Like no other.

The perfect place to sit,
Only when the flourishing
Mountains casts a shadow
On the other side of
The extensive range.

Even so, it’s such a
Beautiful place to sit.

More when the made
Of fat and skinny and
Happy and sad and
Continuous life
Is there to observe
The sunset that
Changes the sapphire
Blues to flaming oranges

Ready to be taught by
The twilights of the
Most unfortunate and
The seducers.

A dark tunnel
Where the Young
Women jog
And the cows
And the pigs
Have tasted blood
And the morning sun
Is taking a little
Longer to come up.

Tunnel
that can only
Be traverse with
Experience and
Burning cinnamon.

And oh, evil one.
The night will cast an
Eternal veil.

And what an enormous,
And eternal night this is.

What a lonely night.

And evil one,
Between the burning sea
And the pale morning,
You’ll find the quiet
Of husks and dead fish,
Trembling foam of
Retreating waters,
And messages in bottles
Never read before.

And silence will come
Wrapped in a blanket,
Galloping on beach *****
And flying machines that
Leave faster than they go.

It’ll cure the absence of warmth
While the days, the months,
The time passes by.

The morning will come,
Brandishing celestial blood,
Turning the sea ablaze.

To let you know,
That you have escaped
Once more.

Don't stop walking, the path will appear before you;
Love will remedy all your pain if you keep your heart open.
It's not about what we think or feel, it's what we know.
So, surround yourself with good folks
Surrender, and just go with the flow

Fret not for being the submerged stone below.
You may hit rock bottom, and there may be nowhere else to go.
The surrounding water will harbor you from the noise.

All that matters is that you do not decide that you are bound to be there forever.

Bukowski wrote
“I loved you
like a man loves
a woman he never
touches, only writes to,
keeps little photographs of.”

And I wish that was the case,
Because when the night
Gets darker and darker
And the streets
Get filled with shiny
Lights and long days,

I start to remember the
Smell of your hair,
The silk on your skin,
The dew on your eyelashes.

And the poems
You have written about me,
The bad ones,
And the good ones.

When the room starts
Smelling like rot and
Decay.

And I can’t keep my hands
Off of the kitchen knifes
And the lights flicker
Morse code.

I think to myself
what if I would have stayed
In the comfort of my home
And sunk in the problems
That I had and didn’t have.

What would have been
Of my life.

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you **** in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

I took on poetry,
And books,
And more books
To calm the bitter
Taste of salt water.

My heart
Takes no respite,
As it swallows and
Drowns in the
Mediocrity.

While autumn
Sinks his teeth
Into meat
That I so
Solemnly
Follow
Catching up
With every
Living breath
Just to feel the bite
Marks left behind.

My heart is not
One to give up.

I live
Through misery,
In hopes that it’ll
Bloom in the
Evenings of spring
Bringing the butterflies
That I wait to wake up
With one day,
My stomach has been
Empty for a second too late.

And the bees,
Oh the bees.

So magnificent
As they succumb
To the nectar
And take it back
Home to be made
Into honey.

Hard workers in
Look of hard work.

Patience is virtue
And I’ll wait in the
Roaring sea.
Through harsh winters
And freezing rains.

Just to feel,
What I’ve felt again.

“It’s in the water”
They say,
“It’s in the cigarettes”
The yell,
“It’s in the food”
They proclaim.

Only if they knew,
That the earth
Sings a tune
That tells my feet
To move.
And that it’s
Truly in the everlasting
Silence that accompanies it.