maybe,
we both believe that it's just a word
and it can't possibly make up for all the damage
we cause time after time
to once again claim we're sorry

so, neither of us ever expected an apology
nor demanded one.

maybe,
we realise that it's unknowingly promising
to not repeat the same mistake
therefore, we choose to not disappoint each other
with the hope of sorry

so, neither of us expected an apology
nor demanded one.

maybe,
you know that your words can hurt me
but you say them anyway,
because there are times when I'm just as cruel
and we'd rather be equally destructive
than sorry

so, neither of us expected an apology
nor demanded one.

imagine driving a car
in New York
alone at night

That's how our love is

imagine walking
in paris
together in spring

That's how our love is

imagine riding a bike
in Barcelona
afternoon sun glowing on our
Smiling lips

That's how our love is

imagine dancing
Together
in a cosy bar
in the heart of Rome

That's how our love is

when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"

I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:

to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.

we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us

it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.

the phone rang at 1:30 a.m.
  and it was a man from Denver:
  
   "Chinaski, you got a following in
  Denver..."
    "yeah?"
   "yeah, I got a magazine and I want some
  poems from you..."
    "*******, CHINASKI!" I heard a voice
  in the background...
   "I see you have a friend,"
  I said.
   "yeah," he answered, "now, I want
  six poems..."
    "CHINASKI *****! CHINASKI'S A *****!"
  I heard the other
  voice.
    "you fellows been drinking?"
  I asked.
    "so what?" he answered. "you drink."
    "that's true..."
   "CHINASKI'S AN *******!"
    then
  the editor of the magazine gave me the
  address and I copied it down on the back
  of an envelope.
    "send us some poems now..."
    "I'll see what I can do..."
   "CHINASKI WRITES ****!"
   "goodbye," I said.
   "goodbye," said the
  editor.
    I hung up.
    there are certainly any number of lonely
  people without much to do with
  their nights.

shot in the eye
shot in the brain
shot in the ***
shot like a flower in the dance

amazing how death wins hands down
amazing how much credence is given to idiot forms of life

amazing how laughter has been drowned out
amazing how viciousness is such a constant

I must soon declare my own war on their war
I must hold to my last piece of ground
I must protect the small space I have made that has allowed me life

my life not their death
my death not their death...

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.

one flies
off.
then
another.

one is left,
then
it too
is gone.

my typewriter is
tombstone
still.

and I am
reduced to bird
watching.

just thought I'd
let you
know,
******.