If you’re expecting a poem, this isn’t it.

It might not even be prose… I don’t know.

as I write,

a combination of bourbon and rye

with a foamy Guinness finish

is lapping against the walls of my stomach;

I’m intoxicated, and I feel good…

but I digress.


I just want to share the experience.


Anyway, there I was in a Skid Row bar

enjoying my whiskey when I overheard

a conversation.


Bukowski was mentioned.


I happened to have a copy of

‘The People Look Like Flowers at Last’

in my bag, and I - already feeling light and fluffy- took it out and waved it around

as if it were the congressional medal of honor.


A man spoke up. He was a very old man;

wrinkled and hunched over,

and he wore a colorful fedora upon his

(likely) hairless head.


He claimed to have met Bukowski

in the very bar we were drinking in tonight.


I was intrigued; I bought him a drink

and he told me the whole tale.


As it goes, Bukowski was in the bar one night,

drunk and waving his name around and saying things like “oh, c’mon! I’m Charles Bukowski! The writer… the immortal poet.”

It sounded like Chinaski - and this guy

didn't look like much of a reader, so I decided

to give his story some credit.

Anyhow, the man I was speaking with was

there that night, and he had something to say.

He told Bukowski “you’re an *******!

You might be big with the colleges

and the fancy journals, but down here

you’re a drunken ***! Just drink your *****

and shut your ******* mouth!”

He seemed to become angry even as he spoke to me. I was in awe!

There I was - in Skid Row of all places -

sitting as close as I will ever sit

to my greatest influence.

You will always be the broken

structure where I hide

in my hypocrisy.


Yes, I shall build my crypt

with your stone, and I

will be the mortar;


Stacking you high into the

shadows overhead;


holding you fast where I

deem is your home;


My mortar will hold you!


Indeed, it shall outlast your

stone;


Holding it's vague shape

in chalky, skeletal ruin while

men gaze, not knowing what

that shape could mean.


© Nathan A. Brock

Oh, this shall be the morning
that consumes the last
morsel of my sanity;

my predawn bus stop arrival
met with the chattery
of a fellow with no regard
for the drowsy hours.

Why is he talking to me?

The whistling chirp of a sparrow
slices through his ramblings -
clearly offended by the
chatter that roused him;

or perhaps it was expressing
sympathy for my current woe,

but as I listen to the bird
violently cursing the
gabby gentleman,

I begin to feel like
I made a friend.

My rage is a dandelion seed head scattering
to the wind; I can't catch
every piece.

Though, sometimes, one may float
into my palm, and I examine it to find
that the spiky yet soft hairs of the fury white drifter make no sense to me.


© Nathan A. Brock

God, I hate 3am!

You make me late for work and grind my mind into bite sized peanut butter cups.

My thoughts are not a drill,
but they ***** me like Debbie did Dallas.

                     *really? You're doing ****
                  references now? *

*******!
YES, I said **** in a poem!

                  *who are you talking to? *

YOUR MOTHER!!!

always voices at 3am!

Voices like shadows barely perceived on the edge of your ear.

                       *you can't hear shadows *

No one ******* ASKED YOU!


Sleep is a midnight UFO hovering behind an old farmhouse.

You may have seen something... once, but you can't prove it really exists.

Not at 3am when shadows walk like peeping Toms passed your window.

Not at 3am when your eyes are shot and your skull tingles like peppermint body wash on a squeaky clean *******.

What the **** am I saying?

I don't even know anymore.



©Nathan A. Brock 2022

I Know how the moon feels.


Used to reflect the haughty brilliance

of a star too arrogant to close

his eye to the night sky.


Does the sun not see the frozen

tears that stain her face?


I often wish to be cold and empty, too.

To pass- silent and unnoticed through

my own dark expanse.


To keep my thoughts,

my secrets,

my tears behind the black.


Yes! I know how the moon feels.

Dark and cozy,
playlist of metal and punk,
generous doubles -
above the 4 ounce standard;
I like this place.

The bartender’s drinking too;
looks like *** - dark and sweet -
neat.. my man!

no one bothers me,
I bother no one;

only sit and sip my drink,

peace.. solace.. tranquil..

listening to the montage
of ***** ***** jokes
from the men center bar.

They laugh - not loudly,
they are quite old.. mousey..
squeaky voiced..

I chuckle as Skid Row skids
just outside the door -
it doesn’t come in
until after dark.

This city hasn’t much to
offer a redneck like me,
but I like this place.

How do you hide from the mirror so well?

Your tears are so faint I almost missed them;
I almost missed you!

That fluorescent smile, so wide and so "true".

As though your lips were not curled
around rough cinder chips…

Hide the cuts on your lips
so masterfully, too.

A smile and a laugh.. you dance like a leaf
blown by hot fume and ash…

Your tattered edge hidden from view.

No, I'm not like you.

I dance more like pebbles rolled by the tide..
all scattered, and cracked…

My smile is chipped and askew...

And my laugh is absurd! Halting and gruff..
not lovely like you.

Not chorus triumphant with heaven's imbue.

You're harp strings and viols in rhapsody blue!

And would you believe, I once had the mind
to smite myself coldly and leave me behind
to emulate all that is you?

To laugh and to sing - to dance like a flame - to speak the way only you do?

Yes, I wanted so much to persue!

But, your lips drip with nightshade in honey-sweet dew, so viciously rich!

My ache is entwined in their hue.

No, I could not be quite like you!

It is only a rock
floating lifeless
around the earth;

cold and hard,

desolate and bare.

Yet,
with no fire of its own,
it outshines every star.

My desk is a boring place.

I sit for hours scrolling through
long lists of emails, service requests;
barely enough coffee inmy cup
to erase the blur from my screen.

Ahh, my desk is a
boring place.

There’s a cat on my calendar that
stares at me in aperpetual state of
nervous anticipation,
as if awaiting my next movement
that it might spring out of view
and hide beyond the edge of it’s page.

But it doesn't- it sits and
gawks unmoving.

Outlook pings...

Yet another printer is down.
The same printer from last week.

What an absolute headache
printers are. But, at least it
relieves me of my desk.

My desk is a
boring place

When I return I may write a
line or two, but don't expect
too much.

Not from this poem.

This poem is a
boring poem.

© Nathan A. Brock

The sound of whispers
echo endlessly
in the soul
of the ******;
unintelligible words
commingled
with toxic silence,
the mind hovering
over the void,
suspended
by a single breath
held in nervous anxiety,
awaiting the nudge
of fates hand
-the exhale-
and then,
the slow fall.

Thus is taken the will
from the life ;
thus the seedling
tears it's own roots
from the soil
-leaving itself to wilt
on the asphalt-
it's leaves turned down
hiding their faces
from the sun
they once adored;
the sun they now reject
for setting too often.

You were the only one I hated more than myself, yet...

Somehow, that was the best idea of love that I had.

© Nathan A. Brock 2022

These walls are sacred -
here in my solitude,
coating my mind
with toxic glaze,
staring at the void
through smoky haze,
thinking nothing
for the world outside.

My vain sacrifice
come to fruition -
yielding a river
of poisonous slurry;
would leave it's banks
but vision is too blurry
so, hear I sit
holding the oath
I swore to the shadows
of my mind.

You are a tequila sunrise
and I take my bourbon
neat.

An unwritten poem
is as a beautiful maiden
laying dead  
on a sheet of paper;
a single drop of ink
falls into her veins,
coaxing the first feeble
pulse of her heart.

One more drop,

two,

three -

it's beat strengthens
and she rises,
prepared for her grand ballet;
each prance and twirl
tracing every word,
every line;
choreographing her beautiful tale,
until the last drop of ink is spent,
and she collapses  
into the period at the end
of the final stanza.

When you told me you loved me,
I packed your words into a syringe
and injected them into my vein.
They traveled through my blood
into my heart,
my brain,
filling my body with joy;
my senses numb
to the world outside of us.
High on us,
high on your words,
but that high was gone as quickly
as you were.