Of the tick-tick mark of the train,
the Twenty items or Less that you wouldn’t have needed
had you not been walkin’ down Newbury
toward hopeless following
nowhere mud-feel-footprints.
Motif of heavy heartening rain that scours the courtyard
back ‘round my building
that skillet valley of impossible nighttime.
Ring slipping finger, couple standing farther together and wild a gracious call brushes against the grade of man’s terrible
mountain

you want heaps of Wisdom
pouring out your
lonely head BUT you're
not worth
your own time!
    
     Tell me that one.

you're sittin ******
stationary in that good-of-everything
          spinny chair that
makes an axious grate against
the rubbing of
enamel
and shining of wonderful wonderous bone

She said,
“Of course you exist here,
you’d be a fool to think otherwise.”

              and I had a will to believe
                otherwise

just once I looked
out of the oval window
high in the sky
To see tiny figures below
making dances out of the
snake-line of car lights

It was all flat,
and blackness swooned in over
the view,
A reflection showing back to me
all the hairs that stood their ground

a place
has no more meaning, no connection
  with itself
   rather I
who sees with desperate eyes
toward each
possible
turn

I watch you read the book

               the book that a
          crochet of
             stiff wanderers
                        worn        hands
                        welt together some
     inductive hours  
    (some real good ones at that)
  
   what page is that?
the one where she goes “ah!” and the world
     crumbles to their
          hairline-fractured feet,
        
               I’ve read this one before

You sit awake
and wonder what it must’ve
been like,
to climb against the air in whatever
life
you should choose.
Every search lay vacant beside
the pile of wasted time you have
allowed.
(Rather) not for
nothing, we’ll see where this one
takes us

A hyper dog
running circles around children
who don’t care
about the drink in your hand.
Boxes wrapped in thin-patterned
paper,
Waxed in doubt and self-preservation

(But simple and loving)

some Insect trudging
along the denim of
his jeans
It’s a happy state
to be in

The verge of nightly solitude brings ghostly characters in my room,
The glow of moon and whirl of wind breathes open kindle gloom,
and forth from forward unto morning prove to me the sanctum sun,
To vast and winding grassy roads my legs do signal me
Come my love, to the edge of night-
The cool and hollow air,
Come with me and leave me, watch as I stride forth,
Into wild
and twisting seas

New dams built in the dawn of an amateur city,
Its residents eager in ****** the tremulous land,
The smooth, serene landscape of an earthed panorama
Seen bladed and ****** under the hands of its sightseers,
ditch diggers,
An industrial graveyard
Bones of Gaia shattered over the boiled sunlit desert

In addicted evening
I crawl
on my knees,
The caps wearing away,
my eyes burn retinal filmstrips
every time I
Am reminded.
Hug me please, warm
green night

Arrive with your purple tents and
drive stakes through
the mid-October arch.
The spires aching in wingtipped sky
That awful afternoon,
That God given night,
The wonderful hours left alone
And minutes visited together.
In a statement said simply,
I guess it was worth it.

I only drink water nowadays,
I walked barefoot through a downpour
and came out
quite alright.
I sat on a building with gardens sprouting from its windows
and thought about colors and heaven.
I spoke nonsense to a man on the phone every day for the past month,
and I plopped myself in a desk for 14 years.
No wonder why my spine curves,
I only laugh nowadays.
I only smile in awe at the audacity of life

****** is my worst fear,
Although I don't fear it much.
Knives and needles make me uncomfortable,
but blood doesn't.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you this
I'm not sure of anything,
But I love it this way.
It's too good to pass up

We'll have an evening of pitiful grapes,
To squash away and
pour sour wine into our guts.
You need guts in this world,
You need those leaking
Fruit.
You need ****,
you need death
you need tears from the
scarred cheek of
India.
You need strangest eyes grasping your
every life,
You need these hurting
mundane nothings.
You need nothings for everything to be
what it is.
You need to leap back
and be free from
the green clouds
and sweep your hair
down into your face and
see the stained
grey vision
before you meet
the Buddha.
I hope he has enough
for you

And oh how alive this day feels.
Mother Earth is relaxing
with cool wine
that submits itself to me.
Everything is fascinating.
Life is too funny
to be taken so seriously.
And so I roll back the curtains.

I miss my
honey.

With a smile on my face,
I hope I die in
a subtle grace.
And I hope you, too
smile when you know
I'm in the ground
of some burning town.


I hope the birds
chew up worms,
and feed them to my
open mouth.
I hope the dirt
becomes my friend,
And hugs me,
warm,
Like you never did.

I'm laughing at life right now.
And its hideous smile is fading,
It's flashing its fists

jabbing at my gut,

But I'm absorbing the blow.
I won't give it the leeway
it so furiously desires.
I'm laughing at life right now.
I'm laughing at you,
I'm laughing at all the women,
All the
ghost women with
their long
waning
white dresses.
They're all so stupid.
But men are too.
All humans are dumb by nature,
it's the artistic ones that introduce a new kind of stupidity.
Nature is true
intelligence.
The trees, grass,
Sky,
Spider,

know more than any person.
They know the secrets of equilibrium.

People are complicated.
Simplicity
boosts its confidence far over the
heels of education.

And through this,
I've realized that life is taken much too seriously.
And love is only real
when love is in true natural beauty.
Love is unearthly.

Love is all the elements.

And inside all beings,
is dirt.
Soil,
And from this
reputable source of life
sprouts
the love
of the
individual.

I live with these words.
I love with these words.
These words sit on my shoulder,
They call out at random,
crying to be heard.
Sometimes I let them leap from my
***** shoulders,
When I feel they are ready to slice the air
like the silence of lovers' lips.
Other times I can't let these words leave,
They weep and holler
to be let out of my masculine prison.
but I don't feel they are just.
I feel those words are
perhaps
far gone,
or far ahead.
I try my best to oppose their freedom,
But on rare occasions,
They spoon their way out.
The Alcatraz words.
They found a way out,
And they're criminals.
They'll ****,
They'll feed on beauty, pain, and resentment.
They'll gnaw out the cloth
on my shirt,
Until my chest, bare,
reads them for all
crawling eyes to see.
Those words are elegantly dangerous,
and they're my favorite ones.

If I could hold a word,
I'd have quite a few in my palms.
The clamminess of my hands
would dissolve them,
And they might imprint themselves
deep into my skin.
I live with these words,
I live with these women,
I dwell with this strange
reptile that can't
seem to behave.
The grains of time
continue to sift through
me.
My head is strained.
I'm breaking my wrists over the
hopeful bend
of space,
And my fingers won't stop twiddling
And now I'm driving 90 down the freeway
screaming at myself and the road.
I have a rage inside of me that's barreling its ugly face
Straight into the jaw of some unlucky recipient.
And I envy everything now,
And you're going to wish
you had seized me
right as the flower
curls over,
and smoothes out in subtle death.

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.

Deluge

            of the senses.

It all
comes

with no
fault
no green eyes

no home.
      
I don't want a home.
I want myself;
I want ******
of order,
I want weeding gardens
sprouting wild
and laughing at the moon,
I don't want to
want any longer.

I'm tired of wants.
I'm exhausted of other people's
need to want
and
want to convince themselves
of need.

I don't need anybody.

I don't want anything.

Yellow napkins
Chrystal glasses,

The walls bled golden flakes into a
fountain
ground that zig-zagged
a misleading pattern.
The wallpaper
and aroma
turned me off.
It was something of a tacky
reminiscence of the 20s,
Reaching in inaudible desperation
towards the ***** man
in his black tuxedo,
Pressing his black baby grand piano.
The waitress came,
(All-too rehearsed)
she was pudgy in her complexion but slender in build.
She crooned to me, a question.
"To drink?"
I didn't answer,

Just stayed, fixated on the yellow rose slowly growing towards its death on the table.
Everything seemed to be yellow.
And even in the azure daylight
kneading its way through the windows,
I still saw death's hoofed shoulders
crying through every object.


I ordered a water.

City of summer,
Firefly structures,
rivers of
streets and
    guzzling cars.

My mistress turns to me,
I feel bad about myself.

But the electric
hum,
the frothing clouds
hugging the skyline.
It makes me feel
like
nothing quite matters
except the
    capture Of
My moments.
I'll take advantage of it.

I won't flinch for time.

I'm going to lay here
In this unusually loud bed.
And watch unusual people
do unnatural things
on a television.
I know this poem is not very
elaborate,
But a good poem
doesn't need to say much.
Just give me
silence.
Sweet,
humble
sweet
silence.

Do what you have to.
An unfinished poem
still means something
to me.




I want to be left alone.

I have no more words.

I feel like a hundred Suns have withered up
and glazed a death
inside of me.
I am stagnant,
I am pale,
I am non-responsive.
I will disappoint you.
I don't pay attention to clocks
because time brings me down.
      I will just ferment in my
        frosty garage
          on my all-too-old
       drumkit.
   Banging away.
Exerting
My fears,
anger,
Displeasement
w/everything
through my wild arms.
A stampede is off in the distance
And it's only a matter of time before I catch up with it.

Please do not ****** your ambition
with a stubborn blade.
    Its jagged edges
Cutting,
     Cutting
        Into a second
   You won't get back.
Please do not blind your
     eyes with your
      elusive fingers
And finish off your last
Weakened
       brook of light.
Let that light
Become a humble river and eddy at its
Center with pride
and purple      Energy.

       Tantalizingly
      Fantastic.

Always chewing on something,
Always dodging thru the night
With a new
face

Tired of time
   Tools and
      ticks,
Zipping up the
   perished cracks of
   heads
          distracted;
Maybe gone for good.
   The arms of our clock
       keep racing
      
           Hurried,
Hurried,
      Hushful
         Scurrying
            Worriers
Come on,
I want to hear
     the last word
       of a confident poet.

Your mouth
curls
  sweet
     Manifested death.
  A gyre of
   eye,

Optic safety
     Sanctuary
A vacant
  mind sweating its
            own existence

                           You might be
               out of finger
                    reach
       Or a hair of
               Silly doom
                      ordained,
              Your grip
                   firm,
               Final.

Watch
With your courteous
Mind
Listen
With your doubtful eyes
      Give me
          one

Or none.

Watching nothing
       I ponder
about questions I can't find.
      Walking the segmented street
The ground bleeding my feet
                  and twisting
                  green stems
                      I seem
                     to want
                   for         A
         difference that cannot.
     Nervous
                                  tension
    People
                  Worried
                                     In motion

It never stops.
You'll never know the delight
the sadhappy of truth

Be w/me

   See w/my eyes

                Watch how you are

Liberate this night,
Pull (break) open the gentle shades
       that hide
Crawling eyes and
                     whisper faces.
Go

                    Go! from me
          Single staged
                 body,
                                  Lighted
                    Flower.
Don't return for the
                               white sun,
                 Nor gold moon
                            But
                    Keep w/you
                   the silver howl
                      of the trees.

I've got this girl;
Deep jet-streamed streets unraveling before this machine,
Her head seems poised against my lap,
Resting eyes
   I wonder what magic that brain            stores
when left in its primal
Imaginative spark.
The darkness of the Hiway
Can't conceal your
Fate,
Love

In tense summer,
      the air above screeching
a mild note
For any soul to ponder.
                  Killing simple minds
    with intriguing sheath-
That smooth,
          cruel blade.
In of itself is
nothing,      Except for you,
               Your wonder,
My timeless seething brain
Oozing curiosity on an
         undeveloped picture;
Black room.
      Animals in a laboratory
testing fate
                     and
                            You.

In a pale light the sense is made alike,
W/in a lucid trance between time and being
            The world is halted,
and the psyche is free to roam its unprecedented, formless
Labyrinth of secrets and of
questions,
         Answers are sparse,
But the ambition of men
Tearing monstrously at the
delicacy of these phantom
         quantities
is what keeps the answers hidden,
      And lingering in a patient limbo

Who will remain,
when given the opportunity
We all flee