I spent my whole life treading water,
but the tide never ceased to
rip my feet out from under me
any time I tried to stay grounded.
I remember being pulled down
at the mercy of the waves.
they tossed me around
like a feather-weight.
but it always felt the same:
the sting in my eyes, the fire in my lungs and
the infallible silence that
made you want to stay under
even when you knew that
the world was just as infinite
above the surface.

Feeling fairly good tonight,
a note to Bukowski to drink again.*

I lost the hours of nine,
ten and one to the wine, bought
but days before in a rush out the door;
it was wet and I was late
to a meeting with myself in a basement
where windows wait upstairs, the casement
a see-through hole to everything outside,
to everything I want to be-

- it's a silent show when these days happen,
usually conjured up from empty pockets
and the need to be nowhere important,
safety curtains fall in front of shops:
they are not libraries for browsing
they are establishments for purchasing-in-

nine and ten came back to me,
one still escapes though, lost
to the palm of a waitress taking the money.