The sun rose sideways over
Trees so full of birds I'd thought they'd
Taken the place of any
Real branches. The song came quiet, 
Making conquest of our opened ears,
And ******, if it all wasn't gorgeous.

The Jazz in it hummed loudly,
Asking whence the shakes began.
She screamed in an ear to
Inquire about the fun she's having. 
Stuck staring in a rear view,
With hope they're unaware of
Locked doors. 

Green-garnished, gold-rimmed eyes, and a
Brandished black mask, blocking the brightness,
But also the bad intentions. 
Let 'em know where you come from,
And they'll use it against you. 
Let them see where you're going: then, 
They run for the hills. 

"What's a vice worth, if you
Don't nourish it?"                
                                                               ­               What's a number, but an
                                                              ­                Excuse, or a limit?
"See, there's a countable
Amount of stuff, in this universe, but we're
Still unsure of what we're
Doing in life."

Gasping at the light's 
Bounce off foreign plants. 
Recollections of strengthened bonds,
Pressing heavy, into wet dirt
Of a previous day's rain. Fearing 
Faith in what you can't understand. 
Working for the worst people in the world. 
But because, you must 
Help, to exist. 

But break the bubble, 
Roll back those shoulders, tuck those wings
                                                           ­                   Maybe get the **** out of the car?
"I'm getting there, ******."

Twenty classless, eight cigarettes. 
Fighting over the radio at the 
Inpatient Mental Health Facility, 
A broken sense of belonging, 
And a dearth of veggie burgers. 

Listless with his lists, of course. 
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to 
Put a stopper in the pouring, 
Bleeding emotions. 
Open hands 
Stained red, and brown. 
Three breaks a day, scarring his 
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls. 

Code Smoking Gun, 
Code Smoking Green, 
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his 
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms, 
Or his mother’s shunning palms. 

Three breaks a day, 
Knee, shoulder, hip. 
The coffee’s decaf 
But your calves? Well, 
They’re just sore. 

They dish the brick every 
Other evening. But living, for 
No light, only serves to lessen your 
Love of life and make you 
Light-headed.

Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?

Busy doctors bust the doors, thank 
God for the freedom, the 
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The 
Flowers and grass greet you in 
Shades of pink and green your 
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen. 
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.

Sometimes it’s something, as 
Simple and clean, tapping my
***** hat forwards, and 
Kicking my back heel against
The wall. 

Sometimes it’s the dank cavern
Of a Dodge’s backseat. 
The frozen entrance to the
Diseased freeway, breathing words 
Of tragedy and paranoia. 

But, sometimes, it’s
The painted landscape of a
Beach, that hung in the
Girl’s TV room, Lodged in place. 

I contact my mind’s
Travel agent, to find it, and 
Wearing Ricky’s sweatshirt I
Stare at the open water. 
Mindful of sharks,
And the smell of ***,
Or sometimes, Svedka. 

Or I’ll stare into Sam’s eyes,
Wishing instead to be 
Spying the bottom of
Jacky’s bottle.
Or Mary’s bowl. 

And when my *** hits the ground,
I’ll look up, this time,
And just like last time, the
Trees will melt. Dripping like
Engine sludge, onto a pavement.
Behind the pool of
Vaporized reality, walls of
Fire rise, so I’ll sit
Back a bit. 

But sometimes, it is too much. 
And I’m down on my
****** kneecaps, 
Appealing to the apparitions. 
Begging for a 
Box of wine.

I'm sick of being told that I'm 
"Not Charles Bukowski." Because, 
I never said I was.
But also, and more, because, every time,
(And I suppose I've told myself plenty too)
It's a let down. 

I want to believe
(And not in that X-Files sort of 
(I Want to Believe sort of
(way) 
That we're all Bukowski. 
We're all at least poets. 
At least we're all ***** poets,
In one way or another. 
"I'm too ****** for this *******."

But this is starting to feel like
The part in the film when I'm 
Talking to the old girl, and she says, 
"What I've said up to this point is
Pointless. Now you decide."
I'm at the part of the book 
When he finally finds her.
And yes she still loves him,
Or at least. She's loved him the whole time. 

I can turn a leather recliner
Into a throne, if need be. 
I'll tape a crown of paper together
To prove a point. 
I just happen to think
The kid getting high in my kitchen
Has a real chance at the presidency. 

(Grab this, draw a circle on the floor
With it. Fill the circle up with
Everything you know, the words
The love, the colors, the mended,
And the still open. Watch that light up
At least a universe.)

I'd hope our kingdoms
Could co-exist peacefully,
But my respect for you,
As a fellow ruler,
Would never waiver

Because you can make your crown
Of staples and business cards
And be King Bukowski if you wanted,
But at least you'd be special. 
And (at the very least),
You'd be king.

Mouths open, Angel's back with friends.
A chorus of the celestial,
Wings tucked, halos blazing.
(Deaf, and you'd swear they're screaming)
Melody simple, beautiful, and toxic,
Blasting insanity back this way:
"They can't take that away from me."

Cheap Whiskey is still angry,
Writing about your arms, and your eyes.
Stuck in the rhythm of the Jazz Insatiable.
Voices, in harmony,
On the way to death's cousin
The "not - quiet - enough"

It feels nothing short of genius loving you.
Any notions, thought in such volume,
With such swiftness, should be going
Somewhere important, or to some
Great End.
Yet, all imagined here, stuck, throwing, with my own lungs.
Rings of smoke, and
Red sound. 

The Lines draw themselves,
If the dirt leaves a history,
If the wings help them fly,
If her car's still ******* running,
If the knife slipped a different way,
And the blood didn't stain. 

But what should I do when the voices get louder?
When it's all I can do, to give each
Frequency its face, how do I put her
Back in focus?
Humming, and a hot mind,
My teeth break,
And I sing back.

Difficult deciding that you'll
Never be so sure,
If you faked it so she'd want you,
Or if you faked it for that smile. 
Wings, splayed out across 
My open torso, begging for a story,
Maroon eyes, that tell furious truth. 

(There is something to be said for my future.
I'd hope it would be: The city I 
Resolve myself in, might rise and
Fall with the air in
My chest. We might inhale, 
Together, the streetlight dreams,
Before choking on stale air,
And hurling, in unison.)

Clotted outside, rushing throughout,
Stains don't bleed. But the scars do
Leave marks. The Lines 
Draw themselves. 
Despite my best efforts to 
Stop them.

I stole away, with an

Angel intent on keeping 

Me company, for my

Last day on earth

She drew my name in the clouds with

Ink she bought from God,

Broke my bed,

Ripped my blankets, and

Sat me down to

Mock my ignorance

Needing a place to sit,

We built a bench, out of

Broken promises

Each knot in the wood

Melted into a bitter syrup, as I

Recommitted it to memory

We drank coffee behind the

Store that sold my

Innocence to those more

Deserving of the 

Luck they’d received.

Their tender was 

Myth and merchandise,

Final sale,

No return.

The torn soles, on the shoes I

Wore, slid softly through the

Field of grinning flowers, their

Beauty rivaled only by their

Obvious ignorance

Fingers wrapped my wrist,

Departure was inevitable

Wings spread, we soared over the

Blue and purple of the 

Flowers, shaded darkly by the 

Sun’s embarrassment

But from miles up, my

Sight, seemingly unchanged by my

Decreasing proximity

Showed me their vigilant smiles

Had she dropped me 

Anywhere else, the

Beautiful field of 

Terminal foliage

Would sway the same, with

Each windy eve

I woke up, drunk on

Sleep and whiskey, as the

Sobering veracity of my

Failure to keep dreaming

Became achingly apparent.

Take me back to the
Ashtray, in which we burned
Incense, in the front
Of my truck

Flick your ash out the
Window. Keep an eye out for
Anyone working harder than we
Believe they should. Or danger.

Read me a story. Tell me
How he’s not what you thought.
Diffuse the red dye of your
Stained words through the air.
Breathe deep. Hold for ten.

Delete the stanzas, re-read,
Test foundation under shaky limbs.
Burn your bra, don’t turn around.
Forget.

Become the bare-footed rockstar in
His maharishi mansion.
Hating hate, with vivacious volition.
Crusade against indifference.

Retire to your riches. 
Numb out everything they’ve already said.
And have foresight, of what they haven’t.
Novus Ordo Seclorum.
Defeat the mundane.

Return to your home world. 
Return to the truck. 
Light the **** incense.
Don’t ash on the rug.

Gray waves of glowing
Boredom wash over your 
Pre-glossed eyes.

Dance, clouds!
These will serve as your instructions.
She will serve as your guide.

Hold on, for dear life. 
Sometimes the inconsequentiality,
Can send you through the shield.
Novus ordinary Seclorom

Here’s to girls who laugh at your jokes 

And don’t want you to **** yourself. 

Here’s to the grind, and all it’s soul-*******. 

Here’s to weasels, and

Possums and rodents of all sorts.

Commence, the hallucinations of

Cream-colored wheat fields, and 

Their straw guardians, 

Harkening to the inept and 

The inadequate, to try their product.

It’s why their older stuff is better, 

It’s why the alternative is the standard, 

Because you’re too **** much 

Like everybody else, 

And inside, it’s killing you.

Like every spelling mistake you 

Forgot to correct, and every 

Fallen soldier, with pop-top wounds, 

Whose blood, you never lapped up. 

Buzz-to-Buzz.

You can’t play the victim, when you’re 

Already the villain.
And the “S” on your chest doesn’t

Stand for your name.
You can try, but anyone with 

The good decency to wear

Sunglasses can see through you.

And then the acid kicked in. 
And
The amusement park of your 

Unimaginable, becomes obvious. 

And there’s a leather belt wrapped around 

Your restrained eyes, lest their be any 

Burglars, out to climb through those windows.

When you’d rather scar up your 

Arms than let them be the 
Better half of an embrace. When the 

Clouds are a few more shades of 

Gray darker than they were the
Day before. When your life is as 

Disposable as your coffee cup 

Or your college education, 

Come find me.