I was driving in
deep night.  
Off the clock,
scrumptiously free.
I believe it was Modest Mouse on the
stereo.
The dim blue backlight mocking the
seering of the moon.
I love driving.
I love driving at night.
I love the buzz of
blurry lights and landmarks
zooming past my windshield,
like a rodent avoiding my bumper.
If I killed one I guess I wouldn't care.
I'd probably keep on driving.
I'd leave its soul to rot in the summer
tar.
Or maybe not,
Maybe I'd get out
into the
snared night,
and assist its little body into the woods...
Depends on how I feel tonight.

The room so
so silent
You can hear the
metronomic tick
of an undressed
wrist watch,
Eating at the air

Watching

I notice my legs are jutting out of my covers
more and more
each night.
They are so eager to leave
the comforts of my bed,
I wonder what
incites them to
wander from the safety
and promise of sleep.  
Maybe
a dream long
overdue,
Or just life's
dumb wink
of unavoidable stretch.

On those moon nights
we danced in hellacious
melodies,
The quartet howling,
The whole frenzy
of it
composed.
placid.

On those moon nights
our optic
gathering,
our picture of freedom,
a little snapshot of liberation.
Just to dip it in front of you
like a curse,
a guild
of choice.

Oh, on those moon
nights I weeped
at the sight of heavens
soon shooting through
the trees,
peril in my brain
and I couldn't have
felt more released.
That free
killer
night
that
murderer of conscience.

It was a cosmic morning,
The stars faintly hiding behind a drone blue sky
I'd been driving
Down streets,
Blur of
sacharrum
in the flash of road and freedom.
I remember two men,
being daylight and road
Cruelly battling for my attention,
both suited
and grinning from the clouds
down on my
nothing-green car
That has no difference
on this massive,
bizarre
earth.

Watching a wasp slowly die on my roof,
I think
about all the other
poor souls
slowly
baking in the
mid April
sun.

I'm glad all
I get is
a tan.

Charles Bukowski.



You will be the death of my words.