I rule out myself

when reading, so I can hear --


what is being said.

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

Soft lyrics billow from the next room,
Wrapping their syllables around my body.  
Drenching my skin in warm, buttery tunes.
Floating behind the words on the page,
As I watch the stories unfurl from my book.
Sometimes I forget that I’m reading,
I can see everything as clearly as the island
From my beach on a still July morning.
My eyes stop seeing and my fingers
no longer turn the pages,
I am part of the tale.
Engulfed by the stark poetry of being alive.
A passive, invisible witness to the lives of the characters,
As they run across my mind and live onwards in my imagination.

A few throw in their Towel.
Some drown in a Pool of Tears.
A few fight life, like Fighters.
Others suffer through the Years.
Few string up their sentences
and bleed with words they Write.
Writing Prose and Poetry,
they hardly sleep at Night.
Fighting their daylight Battles
and waging a War with the World.
Their Words at times hold Promise.
Alas like a stone they’re Hurled.
Words don't decay or rotten.
I read them as I lie down in Bed.
For Others they seem all forgotten. 
I'll keep reading them, till I'm Dead.

I've got a reading!
And the venue's all sold out.
It's an old phone booth,
that some company threw out.

It's standing room only,
but you can get in by arrangement.
I'll just hop out, for the term
of your engagement.

If you show up
you won't even need a mask,
'cause you'll be standing
on the other side of the glass.

My voice sounds muffled
in the sound-proof enclosure
so my poetry won't be getting
very much exposure.

For my fan base,
it's the ideal place to show.
See, I can do the reading,
and no one else will know.

As a reader I

would like to buy with each book --


reading time as well.

In these notes
Are countless tales
Of memories, tried & true

But not a word
From endless books
Compares to me & you.

The turn of phrase,
Or so it goes,
Says all begins anew

I’ll be right here
’Til your last page
And in the next one, too.

The wind rises
in the courtyard
baring extraordinary
imaginings
faithful oscillations
of space time
evanescence of
life and death
always mutedly
move side to side
the wind rises
the whole range of experiences
of a flower-like butterfly
venturing through
the damp and dusty
it makes the bronze in the night
cry in its reply
a rustling sound woke me up
its the sycamore castle outside
that carries the burden of dawn
the tree is just like a book opened
birds, insects etc are inserted in the pages
i walk into the bones
to eavesdrop on the breath of this minute
to learn its calmness
and indifference
towards the coming and going
of multifarious clouds.