the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.

then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile  -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.

oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.

"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.  

"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.

"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...

...why would i let go of all

-i feel-

is left?"

he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...

...maybe he's halfway there...

regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.

to continue is to face those suspenseful

-crescendos-

of life, with
"a ******* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,

no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-

...

-melancholicreator

i found myself reading
the words of Bukowski
as he describes a series
of meaningless moments
aspects of a journey
seemingly trifling
prosaic and unremarkable
in the manner recounted

a bus stops at a cafe
in the hills
lightly touched by
a newly-falling snow
of food and coffee
he says both were good
the waitress rare
the cook effervescent
the dishwasher commodious

as the snow swirls
beyond the window
he describes the scene
as beautiful but curious
certain it will forever
be beautiful in that way
he wished to stay
yet returned to the bus
nonetheless
when the driver beckoned

the other passengers
spoke or read or
tried to sleep
and none had noticed
the beauty of that moment
that something could be
so poignant to one
while being mundane
to others
is worth remembering
i guess

I'm not surprised anymore by
the extraordinary.
When life bombards
me with trivialities, and
ordinary events,
something always happens to
jolt me from my lethargy.

"Bukowski **** on
the training pads!"
My brother yells, from
the dining room.
I'm living with my
brother, and
we have two
black kittens, Mojo and
Bukowski.
They bring me
hours of smiles.
I've never seen
eyes so full of
trust and adoration.

Bukowski has an
aversion to the litterbox.
We have tried everything.
When I put him in,
he jumps out like it's
a muddy pond.

His brother Mojo adores
the litter box.
Not only does he do
his business, he also
plays and sleeps there on
occasion.
We've started with
the training pads and
newspapers.
It's working.
Amidst all the destruction,
hate, and chaos in the
world, I'm eaten up by
the magic of the ordinary.

I talk to them as
they doze in the
afternoon sun.
"Thank you boys,
you got me going again,
Mojo, you broke the
dry spell."
They blink, and
Bukowski licks his
brother's head.

I got the small room.

I am winning the day.

Finally, I can breathe.



except, the walls are stained,

the mattress, too.

thick brown streaks;

a hundred men have sweated

The Fear

in these walls, I think.



the mirror

in the shared bathroom

sees the blood in my eyes.



a fly, a small black, buzzing

fly,

crawls over my fingers

as I am writing this letter.



and the fly crawls

over me,

Over the table,

Over my dreams.



crawls over cheap, thin-soled shoes.

my words on the page.

my whisky, too.



the fly crawls across the dents in my soul.

the handkerchief

I use to wipe my mouth.



and so, what do you do?

I swing my pencil at its soft dark body,

failing,

I flail my arms,

as crazy men do.

would anyone rescue me

from my hell and understand.

the fly and I.

isolated I am.



through the window

pane,

under the full haunted moon,

I undress myself.

to the bed

I lay myself soon.

the single-sized sluggish bed before me.

bed of a hundred men.

one hundred dead men.

one hundred dead-drunk men.

me, now as I am.

Gustav Wolfgang
600 S. Graves St.
McKinney 69, Texas


               The Damnation of Non-Invisibility

the damnation of non-invisibility:
this is where even
brilliance
fails-

and all that heart,
and where she came from
that horrible thing-

bends you down
to the highest bidder;
the ***** she said
you weren’t.

boys, i’m here to tell you
it’s a ******* crucible.

getting where you need to go
never getting anywhere
or anything;

but finding resting
***** face,
every single place you go-

be easy,
once your little hands find earth,
there’s no going back;

remember what you mean to carve
into those dank ****** walls
and know;
that the gods that put you here
once were good to us;

and that it is not the act you watch right now
that defines a thing;
most especially,
not you.

my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.

Smack!

**** you!

Why was I "born into this"?