sacred silence hangs on angel wings
blessing, watching over wakened night
fluttering on the screen, drawn to the light of
consciousness, the truth of darkened mornings.
strong, alone, remotely flipping through the
channels of the restless bar-room soul
charles bukowski, angry, drunk and droll;
pavement wisdom yanked inside, renewed and
resurrected.  rolling stone lays open,
having sprung the latent-night messiahs
preaching to insomniacal choir.
cryptic muse's recipe for coping:
be consumed, entombed, re-wombed by
worshiping and feeding written fire.

Come on, baby
I gotcha number
I know you got mine, too
So many swishy, squishy things
The two of us could do
Dig our toes into the sand
Get lost all night in Neverland
Get beamed up, and Scotty too
(Though we'll ditch him, it's only us two)
Find some old time sweet beat box
Dance until we wear out our socks
Hit the ol' pinball machine
And at the pool table we try to keep it clean
Laugh and dance until nearly two
First dates gotta end sometime boo.

Get over yourself
Swollen head Boo
I can see how your biggest fan is you
I respect confidence
But you take it too far
Your ego's much greater than you really are
You are pretty good
I will admit
But honey, you ain't got the patent on
Being The ****
Believe that your special
I'm all for that
But your greatness don't need to make others flat
There is room at the top
For more than you two
(And by "you two," I mean
Your ego and you)

I gave him a pile of crap
About how he was all wrong
We went back and forth
And then he wrote me a love song

coconut trees hold,
tight on to their umbrellas,
wind upsets that plan.