The formula to go from
Depressed
To
Manic
Is this-
12 beers
2 valiums
A whiskey on the rocks
A beautiful sunset
And an hour of Bukowski

Cut, paste, carry.
Receive, bleed, recede.

Are these eyes my own?
When did you get here?

A singsong bird out my window,
Calling me to the cemetery.

I'll meet you there.
We can find it together.

Step up, step down, turn around.
Lie awake, fall asleep, fall awake.

The dimes on my counter are blue
Shades like cotton, streaming hues.

Visions of hell. Visions of heaven.
Visions of all the spaces between.

Where have you gone, my friend?
When will this all end?

**** it. Leave it. Scream it.
Jump. Run. Swerve.

This tree in particular
Seems to understand me.

Ant hills made of dish soap
Ink like blood on paper thin walls.

I remember when
We fought those
Angry Puerto Ricans
With their shiny knives
And one of them got you
In your thigh, John.

I held your head in my
Lap as the blood from my
Nose trickled down your
Neck and chest and we
Were pretty drunk and
Very high on who knows
What and you asked if
You were going to die.
I said, "No, John. It's
Just in your thigh."

I remember that look;
Disappointment.
A furrowed brow and
You threw a gaze
To the wood-line in the east.
We all knew that feel.
The disappointment when
Death evaded us.
Cunning fellow.

Imagine a nightmare
While you're awake.

Imagine a knife's edge
With a ghost at the hilt.

Imagine a death
Not instantaneous.

"Fitter Happier"

"more productive
comfortable
not drinking too much
regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
at ease
eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
a patient better driver
a safer car (baby smiling in back seat)
sleeping well (no bad dreams)
no paranoia
careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole)
keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then)
will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall)
favours for favours
fond but not in love
charity standing orders
on sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants)
car wash (also on sundays)
no longer afraid of the dark
or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
nothing so childish
at a better pace
slower and more calculated
no chance of escape
now self-employed
concerned (but powerless)
an empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism)
will not cry in public
less chance of illness
tires that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat)
a good memory
still cries at a good film
still kisses with saliva
no longer empty and frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick
that's driven into
frozen winter **** (the ability to laugh at weakness)
calm
fitter, healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics"

- A song by Radiohead. I did not write this.

And then I realized-
I am not suffering.
The I is not constant.
The sick father, that is
Constant. The drawling
Pain of humanity, that
Is constant. Those of us,
The Bukowski's, are merely
Those conscious of the
Continuous and everlasting
Stream of human
Suffering.

God bless this silent space
It's inside of these crevices I pace
Little drops of blood around
The pools inside your heart abound
I'm swimming through the cavern
Drinking up the love I earn
Perhaps in the right ventricle
I'll find the right strings to pull.

The month of December made the
Snow-less mist seem like an
Unexpected, yet pleasant guest. The mist
In October, on the other hand, is a
Shadowy figure who stands under the
Street light in the distance or the
Man hiding in the bushes as you
Unknowingly pass by. I realized that all of
My fears were a product of time and season.
Perspective is everything, whispered the soft mist.

I walked by a house that you and I might have
Shared, but you are long gone and the I who loved
You has ceased to exist. Now it is just I, a single ray of
Light emanating from the silent spaces between the
Thick woodland pines who charge along at my side.
The I with the beard, the broad shoulders and the
Deepened voice. The echo of a childhood lisp still
Resonates behind my teeth.

I thought of the art that was growing between my
Ears and behind my eyes, the masterpiece that no one
Can see because it can't escape the prison bars. An idea
Too large and a facet far too small. The mist encouraged it,
She tried her hardest to coax it from me, to grease the bars
Which held it captive within my skull.

There we stood, my dog and I
The wide open expanse of the winter
Field beneath our feet. The vapor of our
Breaths mix as we charge through the
Snow, side by side. I see the earnest expectation
That shines in his eyes. A bond is formed.

A sudden stop, ears perked, there exists only
The dead silence of the space between us and
The woodland trees in the distance. The thin
Border between our world and the wilderness.
We **** our head towards the sound from the
Trees- the distant yip of coyotes. A tension grows.

I see the silhouettes, they silently glide across the
Dark horizon of the forest. The taunting yips call
Out to us. The hair stands up on his back, on my neck.
Blood in my ears, the taste of iron at my teeth. We
Crouch and stalk, a snarl forms in his toothed mouth.
The opponents stand, sizing up. Yellow eyes lock.

My veins pulsate with blood, our hearts pump as one.
The dog looks back, his eyes begging for the command.
Pleading for the shedding of blood as the animosity fills
My eyes with blackened darkness, hearkening to the days
Of spears and stones. My fists clenched and a snarl forms
Around my lips and my teeth. The space shrinks.

I can taste the blood, I can hear the wounded screams of
Our opponents as they fall at our feet. Tearing of flesh
And breaking of bone as his teeth rip skin and my hands
Crush necks. And yet a sudden moment of clarity visits,
And I grab the collar despite the desperate cry. A retreat is made.

There was a boy
Three fingers on each hand
Bent spine
"We have to spend..."
Money
"On your surgeries..."
Parents said to him
He overdosed
On painkillers
His brother went
To a good College

The fools have spoken of the
Blessing of insanity as they
Stand without- gazing in through
The impenetrable glass walls to
Where I lay
Naked
Cold
Alone
To have the blessing of ignorance
And that of prideful bliss
Fools, I hiss through my teeth
And they carry on with their
Long winded soliloquies
With their twisted verbage
A show of flair, a petty coat on
An empty bottle.

Don't ever tell them the truth
They'll load every statement into the chamber
And fire them back through your teeth

Things are as they are
That is a double edged sword
Things are as they are-
And things are as they are

Let that be a lesson to you
Beautiful soul
That we wander this landscape together
Despite the ties of seemingly conventional wisdom

Ashley,

Just saw a picture of a guy who had his legs blown off today. he was being pushed through a crowd of people in a wheelchair. An army vet who happened to be on site was pinching the guy's arteries at the ends of where his legs used to be. Just dangling there.
What's the point? Ya know? I don't even want justice. What is justice? It's a creation by man- an abstraction that can't rectify what has already passed. You can't change what has happened. Find the guy and put him on trial... let people boo and hiss and threaten him. Maybe he'll get ***** in prison, probably not. Killed or put in solitary would be more likely. What does that change? Won't make that ******* guy's ******* legs grow back. Won't bring that little 8 year old back to life.
I want to believe in humanity. I'd like to believe that there is a point to our existence when I could be running in a marathon and then get my legs blown off. I mean, can you even fathom the depth of that irony? A marathon runner gets his legs blown off.

Normally these tragedies don't get to me. I just don't know... is it because I'm from Boston? Is it the shock of seeing that picture? Nothing makes sense. Nothing. I don't know anything. Nobody knows anything. You could accumulate all of the knowledge, know-how and wisdom in the world and still get your ******* brains splattered on the asphalt. bam, in that instance, your intellect, your personality, every memory that you cherished is now going to settle, dry up and rot away in the cracks in the pavement. Spend your whole life running. Training. Finish the ******* Boston marathon and bam, your legs are disintegrated.
Now you're just some inspirational story on 60 Minutes because you survived and show a positive outlook for a camera and help little kids who are missing their legs.

Somebody give me an answer. Give me an answer that i havent already heard. I've heard all of the answers to this. No answer helps. If there was an answer, this **** would never happen.

I don't know who else to tell this too. I had to get this out of my head.

- Mike

The emptiness glides through my veins
Like empty subway tracks and tunnels
The vision of the cleared sky, starless
Yet so obscene. The emptiness. Vast, yet
I am confined; trapped.

Burnt words die as embers turn to grey
The fluxuations are as predictable as death
I’ve tied the burdened mind to the lightening rod

They won't stop.
They'll take your individuality
under the guise of diversity.

They'll neuter you, too.
Rip your ***** right off
and give them back in a glass jar.

They'll leave you hollow,
chasing emptiness, trying to
fill a paper bag with water.

The random movement
Feels scripted.

These words are meaningless.
Like crumpled up husks or
A pile of ashes. They'll be
Blown about and tossed by the
Wind and yet I still find myself
Writing them.

What is the sum of
Man's wisdom?
Stars gaze into the
Earth and no one
Hides from the
Glare of the sun and yet
What are we, but a
Shadow under it's face?

The cloud's vapor collects
And dissipates, and so is the
Life of man. What more then,
Could the words of his
Mouth amount to, or the
Actions of his mortal flesh?


Knowledge is created and
Destroyed continually.
Much less is the breath of
He who whispers it to be
Exalted. So breath what
You are on my skin and
Let the dew of your soft
Words collect on my flesh,
Only to be erased by the
Heat of the sun.

Sometimes I hate
Every single word I write.
Nothing can be good enough,
For what is a word? A mere
Vessel. A vessel can not be a
Complete expression of that
Which it carries. For how could a
Vase of water contain the
Vastness of the sea, or the
Power of her waves? My words:
Futile attempts. Mere vessels, a
Partial representation of a soul's
Cry. What am I left with?

My very soul melts
For the weariness that seems to
Dig its claws into my back and
Drag me, wherein my flesh cleaves
Unto the dust upon which it falls.

And it seems that the darkness
Of this night has consumed me,
That the weight of this burden
I carry has defeated me, and my
Mind has receded into nothingness.

And yet my blood still courses,
Burning through my veins, and my
Eyes are sharp, piercing through the
Cursed veil as I slowly ascend, pushing
My body upward to meet the heavens.

The roots of my soul reach deep and
Spread wide, anchoring me to the soil
Upon which I stand, and shall continue
To stand. These chains, they fall as ash to
My feet. Thus, I am; here I stand.

Someone has snuck up behind me
And cut the strings of my mask

I am sweating
The headaches are coming on

The old devils crawl on the walls
And claw at my skin

It is my sincere hope that at the end of this tunnel
Awaits a light that illuminates the constellations
That I could once see in your hands.

You is all of you. And I need to fall in love with all of you
Again.

Each and every one of you.