Failed again; only this time I lose everything, including my mind.
I plan to wake tomorrow with the intention of trying again.

Your life is your life,
Don't let it be clubbed into dank submission.

I know some "thing" is watching, listening closely.
"It," sends me hope through whispers, whispers only I can hear.
I am scrutinized, ostracized, berated for even paying attention to "that thing."

I am hurt. I want to quit. But I lost everything already, what more do I have to lose?

I act again. I try again. I fail again.
I've given myself the piece of advice to: hold these failures close to my heart. They will pave the way. One stepping stone after another.

You will ride life into perfect laughter.

Once I thought to myself
that Frost was right,
that free verse was like
playing tennis without a net.

But sometimes reading Bukowski
is like looking into Chapman's Homer
for the first time
and I think of writing
as an organic process
like ***-stained thank you notes
and Spanish bones.

I think I enjoy poetry the most
when I'm not thinking about it at all,
the way the deep sea makes a sound
that can't be heard
but we all see the rain
and feel the cold on our skin.

It's just something that happens
like an ******
or a suicide
or a ******
like weeping in a pillow
when no one is looking.

Where have all the writers gone?
Where are all the poets?
Where is our Sandberg with his easy lines,
our Jeffers with his discontent,
our Frost playing tennis without a net
or with a net it doesn't matter?
Where is the greatness that defines us?
Where is our crying Ginsberg
our Bukowski with his rough blackbirds
and our Cohen of the Modern Miracle
(we're still waiting)?
Where is the voice of the internet age?
It'd better come soon.
Because it's lonely here with no one to read,
no modern sage to turn to
and I wonder how many people today
turn away from their windows
to their keyboards,
like me,
and type this in.

People don't change;
I'll still have Bukowski quotes
written on my ribcage
in Sharpie.

Chlorine will go straight into
my nose whenever someone
mentions drowning,
or hating life in general.

Jokes about surf punk and Arizona tea,
everything I've done in the past year
has grown stale. I use the same
three words to describe my feelings.

Things don't change;
my apologies are still faux.
I never felt grief about that death,
or all those car accidents and overdoses.

Radio pop songs derive catharsis,
but I use one pretentious band or two
to combat that. It does nothing,
I am nothing,
or something like that.

Everything won't change;
except for feelings, emotions,
point of views, personal contacts,
and my habit of texting back.

I'll say a bunch of Beatnik quotes
and freak out over small things,
the latest post punk song will be
spray painted in the school's parking lot.

I'll still hate the smell of Chlorine,
but love the thought of memories.
Love the thought of moving on

and the idea of things ending
for a good reason.

So many things to look at – pretty
Girls with short hair, long hair,
Brunettes and blondes
Short and tall – they have secrets
They’ve got them all

The nice ones, too stuck on plans
To ever be free, college and marriage
Is all the dreams the see
The tall ones, those with
Beautiful smiles and smoking bodies
Their lights blotted out by insecurities

But who of them will look through me
And who can see the person
That I’d truly wish to be

I stand here, waiting for something
In between it all; someone who
Sees me for that which I am
A girl that doesn’t run from the skeletons
In my Titanic-sizes closet

And doesn’t die from boredom
When I sit still, when times get calm
But I’ve been here before
And I loved my time here, yet
How could I even sit still
With the cries I hear at night

I'm clueless as to how to fall in love
I think it should have happened
At this point, or maybe even long before
My mouth and lips are on someone’s thighs
The cheap guitar I own, neglected in the corner

You and me, for now, is all there is
It won’t last long
Until I won’t see you
Just like you never
Truly saw me.

i am too aware of my own image to be who i am.


i dont know who i am


i shaved my beard off the other day.
ive never made a bigger mistake.
i look like a child.
i am a child.
i never want to look like a child.

my neck looks bigger
my face appears to be melting.
i guess thats what
was under all the wool.

i dont have the ***** to live like bukowski
and if i did
i wouldnt be bukowski anyway.

ill be honest in saying
i dont know anything
and the things i have learned
came at the expense
of something i thought i knew.
theres a knife in my stomach
two right hands around the grip
two lefts pointing blame at one another

Chinaski, Chinaski come over here
God Chinaski you stink of beer
Your late again and your work is slow
I should write you up, one more and they will let you go

Chinaski thinks to himself you'll see, I will not conform to who you think I should be
You can stuff your job, the pay is lousy anyway
I have better ways to pass my days

Down to the civic Chinaski did trot
They wrote up his resignation and cut him a cheque
Chinaski took it with great cheer walked down the road and bought a couple bottles of wine and a fifth of ***** and a six pack of beer

He got in his car and off to the track to blow the lot on some halfpenny nag
And to pick up a lady to befriend, maybe get lucky and back to mine, where we can share some bottles of wine

If not so lucky then that's fine by me, I'll get drunk and write my short stories
There's been one constant in my life, longer even than I was married to my wife
That's my typewriter it's special you see
It follows me from room to room, cheers me up when I feel gloom
I put the paper in and turn the carriage and start to write of love and marriage of growing up and moving out, of fights and bars and women and cars.

I write of being on the street of all the women that I meet
I write of work and racing, I write of hardship that I'm facing

I write of the tough life I've had but I don't write it for you to be sad
I write to make you smile and laugh
I write because it helps you see, I write it to cleanse me

If I make you happy along the way then well what really is there left to say

Have a good day, have a Chinaski day

The dogs above me
bark until I shut
them out. A metaphorical
strangulation of purity.
A weary progression
toward insanity.
Bukowski sits beside
me. Limp with the
dread of life
as I flip through his words.
I cannot find myself
because I am wearing my
lover’s socks and
praying to a god I know
does not listen.