A word to all the non-believers,
leave your troubles, your worries tonight.
If horror still haunts you
without God to guide you,
receive this one word insight.

Time.

Time can make all things possible.
Time can wait for need to arise.
And create things unimaginable,
unbelievable. Tried, revised,
its power is constant, its motion complete.
without the gumption to end, or repeat.

Time is everywhere.
Time is everything.
Time boggles.
Time contrasts.
Time is a moment, a millennia,
a mountain, a mouse.

Time is Time, time and time again.

If you have anything to fear, anything to obey,
be it time, believe it or not.

I came, and I went there.
I went there and came.
I furnished my money, my loving and fame.
I drank and I piddled, I piddled and sang,
a song for Bukowski, for Bukowski I sang.

The low-lifes and hustlers,
the ****** and the cops.
The ***** in the bottle,
the dives and the flops.

The racers and wasters,
living on luck.
For all of the chasers,
I now raise a cup.

A song for Bukowski, for Bukowski a song.
A song for Bukowski, Bukowski so long.

In a dream I dreamt last night
I dreamt my dreams came true.
I knew the light of love shine bright,
my life awake a new.

I held the hand that holds in turn
a world I longed to tread.
I drank the wine of loves return
upon my lover’s bed.

O lover please, O lover be
I give you all I am.
And should life make much more of me,
I pledge to you a man.

You are my joy, my want, my wish,
my hopes in human form.
And, if by our lips we were to kiss
I’d know I had been born.

Give my sleep its shifting stupor
as tired eyes now dark delight.
I wish the world goodbye forever
or more at least til morning light.

Bed of dreaming, bed of slumber,
mold me in your folds of white.
And hold me as we lay together
far and falling from all sight.

Slay me torpor, sink me under
leave my bones bereft of fight.
I'm beaten as if by some number
greater than Jehovah's might.

Show consciousness my parting shoulder
as walk I do into the night.
Blinded by the thought that never
ought I know a thought so right.

Write a poem.
Sit down and write what's flowing
through your mind.

Write something.

Say something that is true to you,
means something to you
in your life.

Think of something.
Don't think of something.
Pick a situation.
Pick a memory.
How does it feel?
What do you remember?

Write the first line,
fine,
what's next?
The second line,
the third line, the fourth line.

Don't write it in lines.
**** it up against the page
in a single vertical stream.

Write something.

Sexless
You're not an actor or an actress.
You're a writer.
You're not a waiter or a waitress.
You're a poet.

Write something.

Don't make it difficult.
Don't be too clever, or too fancy.
Listen to your own rhythm.

Don't let anything get in the way.
Write something.

And remember one clear fact.
You are always right.

Don't shave your bush,
your fat hairy bush,
your thick matted bush of twine.
Don't mow your lawn,
of 70s ****,
your afro of ***** sunshine.

Your hedge of rough stems.
of tangled tough vines,
your tight web of spider like lines.
Its secret sunk well;
I delight in to smell,
and careful, my fingers might find.

To lap at its stream.
To eat of its fruit.
To climb through its branches
like a snug fitting boot.

Don't shave it I plead,
until it grows like a ****.
Until it grows, until it flows,
until it blooms like a rose.
Until who knows, I've planted
my seed.

Don't shave your bush,
your wonderful wild bush.
I thrill to search your garden.

Get the slaves to dance.
Make them do a jig or run the deck
a hundred times.
Get the drum and beat them with music.
Break out the *** and lets have us
some entertainment
to save us from mutiny.

It's hot, so we'll make them sweat a little more.
They're used to it.
Call the ****** merchant to come translate.
We’ll have our fun or one of them feisty brutes
will lose a leg over it.

Bring out the chief and have him sing us a song.
Have him lead them all in one of their
old-country tunes,
one of their happier tunes.
None of that wailing and parading full naked in the rain,
but one of those choral working tunes
we'll teach them how to play.

Get the drum and give it to them.
Give them an hour above ship.
They're worth more alive.

Keep me from people
who try to understand.

Tell them that I'm ugly.
Because I am ugly.
Tell them that I'm stupid.
Because I am stupid.
Tell them that I have halitosis.
Because I do have halitosis.
Tell them that I'm going blind.
Because I am going blind.
Tell them that my legs hurt.
Because my legs do hurt.
Tell them I eat dogs
and my **** needs looking at.
That my teeth are rotting in my skull.
and I'm growing hair where
it doesn't normally grow.

But, I have my hands:
wonderfully creative and able to do
so much. My magically strong hands:
powerful and able to hold
so much.
To cradle a baby, or make love
to a women, to bargain a deal, or steal.

I have my hands
and all they can do for me.
To cultivate, operate, ******* with.
Tell them that.

Tell them

that if they want me,

to understand me,

to see the how and for why
I do things,

tell them to come talk to me,

because I really do have halitosis.

Effortlessly, and smooth as a shelled oyster
sloping down a throat's soft corridor,
I allowed myself the sweet migration
of letting it all be as it was meant to be,
simple and complete.

I took in a lung of calm, quiet air and thought,
This is what I was designed to do,
what I am best at.
Nothing feels more real
or more satisfying than this.

A single corrugated shiver rippled up my spine.
From tail to tip it bloomed in a spiral
of agitating sparks, exciting and wild.
Each nerve, projecting in hunger,
fired around the motion
like the equal rays of a dying sun
in one last great solar explosion,
as tiny ****** of sweat flushed my skin.

I wiped myself three times,
lifted my pants and trousers
in one rising movement
and walked away from my floating masterpiece
smiling.

Every small achievement brings me closer
to perfection.
And every small perfection, well,
I hope to enjoy.

A still breeze, and trees
like empty cities.
Fallen leaves on the ground.

Ill pleased and brown,
their crumpled effigies
resound...
...Turn around, turn around.
Right around,
right around.
For the mound of our bodies
no sound
echoes now.
No sound, no sound, not now, not now.
For the mound of our bodies
no sound
echoes now...

A still breeze and trees grieve
in street cemeteries.

No sound, no sound,
no sound echoes now.