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.

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.

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.

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'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.

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.

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




I want to be left alone.

I have no more words.

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.

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.

Who knows
Knowledge from chaos?
Eyes are temporary

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

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

Heavy meadows ran a lap around earth
And green faded (twisting) vines turned rabid and fire-fierce.
            
       (over)turned soil spit until venomous spires were conjugated o'er the horizon.

And I, grazing on the moon's lading glare (the scent of Aconitum napellus poisoning the air)
             Let myself drown in the smoke

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.

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.

The red gated community
sits idle, w/an unhindered title
The creatures are spectators of the seasonal phenomenons,
Leaves expend their death-green souls

Their corpses cringing w/the bitter
wind exhausting its skeleton breath over
the landscape.

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

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.

In your little crushing demanded vascular little world of yours
                (your distorted contorted reversed but somehow-real-big-small-wet, reality: I don't know where you are)
  
  But you know where you're going,
                       Mister,
                   Don't you?

That's right, guy. Take your leave (there's no vacations on this trip/silly, you)
      Where do you think you'll head off to when you die?
(If I knew) I'd split in a minute-long-gevity-of-a-seconds' wishful
             Thinking,

              And never turn a shoulder
'*** it's not worth the waste of energy

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

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.

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

Watching

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

Or none.

Children scurrying
(Slithering) out of rooms,

        Lifting the ground amongst their troubled steps (wishing for tethered stones to clack against heavy heels) and dawn creeps sheepishly into a
Graze.

                        Wolf.

Of Death's hand raising attendance and suddenly
         The innocence of time is given way to the rustling of leaves (leaving their shells/denounced) in falltime inquisition
nomore time; evaporating seconds into literary atmospheric temperaments
               Moons scream(exhausted) for the colony of waves eroding
  ****** scenes into an absent shore

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.

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

She dances thru my thoughts,
Light in her heels
Hair flowing,
Twisting golden like great copulations between the finest elements.
Eyes, delicate
Fierce,
Royal blue as the fountains of Rome

She speaks,
Although I cannot hear
           As I am consumed by
Breathlessness at the
wandering eye that catches
her intrigue.

Emerald streams and
bronze, sunbaked trees
      Golden arches
embedded in our hair.
And call to you the serenade of nature, the trees howled,
In perfect equilibrium
                                   My solumn,
                             secluded daydream.
Fixated on the absence of time,
The loss of structure
and chaos so beautifully aligned.

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

Where in my diluted dreams
Do the fragments of your eyes reach a needle point on a
Thread,
Treading and weeding
Pulling and tearing,
My pupils feel pain in the exposure of light,
So I'll construct a blind to pull over them

Like fish in a bronze painted ocean,
We swam the surface
         and killed the setting sun's
               panorama-horizon.

Whenever there is light,
we dwell,
                   Cling to the murky abyss
                                below
And when the great, pearl moon
comes dancing its way through the dead sky,
Like a long forgotten shaman-hail,

We are free.

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

Oh how I look to you,
With potent eyes leaking
acid vision through a
         somewhat
         structured
field,
Feeling vibrations of   mother
nature's
Hum under my pained feet.
     This landscape painted before me
Like some vagabond's
    midnight dream.
Streams beneath me
            S
              n
                 a
                    k
                  i
               n
           g
their way
(Carving and pulling the ashy ground/into a vortex
void that never    Seems to end.
You push me,
               push me forceful
But not fearfully onto dawn's comforting raft.

Floating fantastically into
         nothingness
I will stay.
              Here, where any mind should
                  give to itself the
                  truth of nature,
                         Truth.
                     Is all I seek.

You are not together,
          and we are not apart.
Call me home,

Think of me as a juxtaposition of jumbled giant words/Feeding monstrously in (where and how,in) I please,
      And please me darling,
For this is the last night we get until
You
      Give
             Up
                  That
       Mask. (A circled mess) quarrying deeply
From the plush seas of bed.

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.

A lone man refracted his black hat thru the shouting of a rain
         SPLATTERED
window,

             His body in awful night,
      (crouching under the church cross) and
Contempt
                  
                     Impatient

He g-roans
            An incoherent dog call
Whistling wildly thru the manifested dusk

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.

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.

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

Illegitimate daughter,
              Your slow smile

Drips (slides idly thru, with-in instants) calls willfully into the ancient night
Where (abouts) of your reference do you wish to fear?
                        Hunt


                          Me.

To script a mental
play on reality,
Is to conjure figurative personas-
or perhaps just imagination

Something that surpasses the grasp of people more and more,
What good is the property of imagination if its use is
ignored and put on recall for some new mind to discover?

The girls in the crowd
With your restful eyes,
With your careful
Killer abroad his
shoulders

Lawless,
Interrupted by the gentle swallow of night;
She danced a perfect circle in my head,
But when it was executed in form,
It was more oval.
Opal tinted tides came crashing thru my peripheral

And out of the corner of the universe
Sprouted a flower
I call my love

In a window,
The light refracts
and time stops briefly

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

              and I had a will to believe
                otherwise

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.

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.

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