It's hard to understand, unless
you've been there.
There is a pull to the streets.
I can't count how many dead
end jobs I've held—how many roach
infested rooms I've
crashed in.
The inevitable day comes when
I tell the boss, "*******, I don't need this ****! "
I walk out into the misty
afternoon—I look left, then right.
I drowned out thoughts of the future with
a cheap pint of *****.

I see one eye George on my travails,
he's half lit—living in the woods.
"Don't let the ******* get you down." He says, as he
stumbles by bent, and taking a standing eight count.
Mickey the ****** stops me a
block from my flop-house.
"Tommy boy, I'm sick…gotta couple of bucks so
an old drunk can get well? "
I slip him a five.
He says with a tear in his eye,
"God bless you Tommy—you know I
had it all, I'm afraid the
streets own me now."
"Keep your chin up" I say as
I plummet down the
street, pretending
tomorrow is a decade away.

I climb the three flights of
stairs to my room,
slip the key in the lock,
turn the ****—it opens.
"I love these little miracles" I say under
my breadth.
My three legged cat Walter saunters up to
me—he's white with marmalade splotches.
He does his best to rub up against
my leg—I pet his matted fur.

I passed out in an alley one
night, and woke up to Walter lying next to me.
I think something crawled into
my ear and made a home,
it's been there ever since.

I crash down on my chair,
and watch Walter scratch at
the door with his one front leg.
He hasn't been neutered—he gets the
pull of the streets.
I let him out and take a long swig of
the *****—the potion does its magic.
Life doesn't look so bad,
there will be other jobs, and I still have
two weeks left in this
dump of a room.
A writer needs four walls—yet there is
always

the pull of the streets.

It's the strangest
thing.
All my senses are
alive, ablaze with
ultra keenness.
My brain is
sweetly burned,
and my eyes are
on fire.

I can taste the
cotton candy clouds,
snd the cab that
I'm riding in smells
of coconut and
honeysuckle.

Those ravens have
mustaches like Poe,
and those raccoons
look just like
Bukowski.
I hear an Opera by
Wagner in the wind,
and my footsteps sound
like the very
pulse of life

For the first time in my
life, I saw colors- not like
normal people see colors; my recent woman
sees colors all the time.
This morning, there was
purple splashed all over my room.
Once, in her sleep, she said
the word 'purple.'
I asked her what it meant,
she said, 'Knowledge of the future.'
I know she will try and ***** this
sickness out of me; God Bless her.
What do I know about the future?
I know it looks bleak, and the
doves are crying.

There is a crime that
goes beyond
denunciation.

There is a sorrow,
a hollowness
that weeping
can't even begin
to symbolize.

There is a failure in
life
that topples and
belittles all
success.

When trying to focus on
life
is like looking through
a kaleidoscope,
when sounds liquify, and
odors take shape and
waltz
to sullen night music,
life must end.

Life must end because
a profit can no longer be
ripped from your
hands, your knowledge,
your punctuality, or your
dedication to
the machine.

Ever since I can remember,
I sensed the
randomness of it
all.
I fought against it
I had faith; I believed.

It was a four horse race at
Santa Anita.
I was with my old man and
little brother.
I put everything I had on
the number 3 horse to show.
His name was Dusty's Diaper.
Shoemaker was aboard;
the shoe for God's sake.
It was a sure thing.
All he had to do, was not
come in fourth place.

I learned that day,
in a horse race,
anything can happen.
I was 12 years old.
And like horse racing,
In life, anything can
happen.

Amidst the California evening,
On our way to the car,
I thought my Dad
Would live forever.

I hate these
******* gnats.
My apartment is
clean, not
sterile, but it's
where the heart is.
The floor is
swept, the dishes
are done, but these
******* gnats bother
me constantly.
I clap my
hands together,
occasionally killing
one or two, and then
I'm grateful that
God doesn't do that
to me.

I'm trying to
write, and these tiny
flying buzzards won't
leave me alone.
Then, a moth
bombards me,
fluttering around my
head and ears,
and I think,
what's than son of
a ***** going to
do to my Irish
whaling sweater?
It's 50% wool, 70 bucks.
I **** it.
Dusty *******.
I feel gratitude that
God doesn't do
that to me.

Don't these flying bugs
die when it gets cold?
I open a window.
Late October, maybe
there hasn't been a
frost yet.
I **** a gnat.
Perhaps I'd be
safer outside.
I need to do
some research.

You will meet
people
in life that
love to keep score.
"I've done this for you, so
you should do that for me."
They keep a mental ledger.
They're pathetic.
Nothing is ever done out of
the goodness of their heart.
Their mind clicks with
records and accounts.
They are slaves to the
almighty penny.
Nothing you do will
ever
count anyway.
You're always in
the red.

The way she faked
love on those gentle
autumn nights
in the country
was one of those little
miracles that made the
trees cry, and the
flowers weep.

Sleep brought dreams
of an actor on an
empty stage...
A big crowd that wanted
entertainment.
They followed the actor
everywhere.
He felt like he always
had to be on.
He didn't like that,
so he moved to
Idaho, where he fished
for trout, and real
love.

It's been five years, but
I still miss her.
Home was in
her arms.
That brown hair and
those blue eyes still
dance through my
dreams.
Everyday was
Valentines Day when
we were together.
She's always in my
heart, but the
sky calls;
time doesn't

To sleep the sleep of
an artist is
the best sleep ever.
All the foes lie vanquished,
and I paint words with
their blood.
All the letters spent on
the paper in
ejaculatory fashion,
like ***** to the egg.
There is no fodder from
dreams to be marshaled,
just the birth of my
creation,
when I
awake.

The strangest thing happened
to me a while back.
I was driving a
lonely stretch of
highway.
A soft vagrant
breeze blew through
the car.
My window was
down about an
Inch.
I smelled lilies and lilacs.

My cell phone rang and
I answered it.
The news was tragic.
A good friend had
committed suicide.
A somber rain began
to fall.
The wild ride of
this carnival life
became too much for
her.
She bought a different
ticket.
No judgment from me,
I wish I could have touched
her pain, and made
It go away.

I began to think of the the
fragility of life, and how
truly fragile the
human spirit
can get.
Life can get
insidious,
with its twists and turns
and hairpin curves.
sometimes, headlong into
a huge oak tree seems
just too inviting.

Just then,
A big white bird
smashed into my
driver side window.
It was like one of those
cartoons.
Freeze frame,
broken neck with
Xed out eyes.

It was so ******* sudden
and loud,
I thought it was a pelican,
but after some thought,
I realized it was a
seagull.
I thought to myself,
It had to have seen
my car.
They usually fly
much higher.
And then I thought
that maybe,
headlong into a 69
Mustang was too inviting.
And just then,
the sun began to peak
out from
behind a big grey
cloud.

I've suffered bouts of
writer's block that
made me feel like
half a man.
Metaphors and imagery
evaded me.
It was frustrating
and painful.
a desert
an iceberg
a forest with
no trees.

Lately it's the
opposite.
I'm on the
most prolific writing
streak of my life.
It's like building
a ladder to heaven.
I can taste colors
and smell sunshine.
It feels like I
found the fountain of youth.
Like I'm a **** star,
a rock star, like I can
grab stars out of the sky
and light up my writing desk.
I sleep in the
crook of the moon
and dream
that this steak
never ends.

Words will be my
food today.
I don't want
to get dressed,
eat breakfast
or go to church.
I'll stay in bed and write,
until the demons stop whispering,
and humanity quits
******* on me.

Last night,
on my way to the
bookstore to get some
Bukowski, I found a
mourning dove,
not a baby
but, too young to fly.
It was huddled against
a concrete wall.
I picked it up and put it through a fence hole in some tall grass,
so that the dock cat, Prozac,
wouldn't **** it.
She caught a lot of birds,
and ate them.
When I went outside
the other morning at five,
She was stalking sparrows and starlings with a murderous
look in her eyes,
and I thought to myself,
Someone should have put me
In the tall grass, a long time ago.

I found this thing when I was a little boy.
It's a beast of some sort; it has fur,
sharp
teeth, and a long tail.It's pulse sounds
like a ticking clock.It's beautiful and
hideous all at once.The thing makes me
feel immortal, like I'm a part of something
big and important.Sometimes it eats
everything in sight. And other times, I think
it might be starving.
It smells like ****, death, and *****.
But sometimes it smells like lilacs and
autumn and different women from my life.
I haven't been able to tame it, but I
feel like it's my friend.

It runs away from time to time.
I stay awake staring at the black sky,
worrying that it will never come back.
I walk the streets looking for the thing on
dark nights and foggy days.
Sometimes, I find it hiding in a patch of
tall grass- all wet and *****.
But usually it comes home on its own,
when it's tired of the vagabond life.
It does tricks that make people laugh
and cry and think.
When strangers and friends see the thing,
their reactions vary: Some people hate it;
they want to **** it, they never say that,
but I can see it in their eyes.
They say, Who needs a thing like that?
But other people appreciate the thing; they
love it and the way it makes them feel.
They say, I want a thing like that.

Sometimes I think the thing is almost
holy, the way it walks into a room and
looks at everyone with its searching eyes.
I'm sure it knows magic.I have a hard
aching love for the thing.It has the
most disturbing eyes; They change color
depending on its mood. When I look into
the thing's eyes, I see people and places in a
different light.Smells take shape and waltz
around the room.I can taste sorrow and
loneliness; I can here the wind blow ripples
across a small pond surrounded by cattails.

I've had the thing so long, I don't know
where I begin and it ends.
We don't always get along, but it's usually
because it won't behave the way I want it to.
It puts up with my selfishness, and kisses
me on occasion.It has no perception of time.
I'm getting old.I'm no longer the boy I
was when I found the thing.I like
it best when we walk together and try
to make sense of this carnival ride of a
world.It sleeps with me every night.
Sometimes, I hardly know it's there.
But I like it best when it snores and dreams,
and I feel its hot, sweet breath on
my face

There's a passion that burns
within me that's never
more alive, than when I'm
In the garden.
And in the garden of
love, my favorite
flowers are the tulips.

They're especially inviting
after a bottle of Chianti
on a hot July night, with
John Coltrane seductively
blowing from the CD player.

Equally captivating, is the little
bud that lies North of the
tulips.  And with the right
amount of attention, the little
bud, the pea in the pod, creates
a nectar of the gods that tastes
sweet, like honey to my soul,
like maple syrup to my spirit,
a heavenly sap that flows like
the beer on tap at an
all you can drink club.
Like Dylan Thomas at a
pub in Wales, my heart sails drunk on the tulip's fine wine.
And then like magic it occurs,
when ovulation yearns for
procreation, and on those nights,
On those nights...
I could spend forever in
the tulips.

Three burly sheriffs showed
up at my neighbors
house yesterday.
Scowls on scarred faces.
Tattered lives, tarnished
brains.
Five minutes later,
they were walking my
friend out in handcuffs.
He shuffled, head down.
Autumn frowned and the
leaves scuttled away in
disgust.

Today, the vultures swooped
in, picked the bones of all
his earthly possessions that
littered what was once his
front lawn.
Jackals, and hideous
hyena faced men and
women took the last of
his things.  

Even though he was
arrested, he still
grows.
and although they are
free, they die more
daily in their own
private evictions.
I've seen more
humanity at a
hanging.

Three burly sheriffs showed
up at my neighbors
house yesterday.
Scowls on scarred faces.
Tattered lives, tarnished
brains.
Five minutes later,
they were walking my
friend out in handcuffs.
He shuffled, head down.
Autumn frowned and the
leaves scuttled away in
disgust.

Today, the vultures swooped
in, picked the bones of all
his earthly possessions that
littered what was once his
front lawn.
Jackals, and hideous
hyena faced men and
women took the last of
his things.  

Even though he was
arrested, he still
grows.
and although they are
free, they die more
daily in their own
private evictions.
I've seen more
humanity at a
hanging.

I miss her, and
it's uncomfortable.
I'm not used to
feelings.
In the past, I would
drink when I
felt uncomfortable,
or felt anything, for
that matter.
Now, I identify
the feelings, like
a strange new
species of animal:
"Oh yes, that's sadness.
It's indigenous to
the western plains of
the heart."
Feeling emotions is
strange and scary,
but it beats the
alternative;
feeling nothing,
and dying alone.

She had wild
dark
eyes, like a
mare
smelling the
freedom of the
rain
soaked meadow.

She’s easily
caught but hard
to hold.
Under the grey
morning sky she
jumped the fence;
thunder chasing her,
nostrils flaring,
wind blowing
through her mane;
powerful legs and
hooves pounding
the muddy earth.

Her freedom has
a pulse, a rhythm;
dark like a Tom Waits song,
black like the flight
pattern of a
wasp.
Matilda is always
waiting to waltz.

Life becomes
simple when you
destroy the fence
and
hold loosely to the
wild
untamed heart.
Try to lasso the
sunset or dam up
the sea; catch the
wind in your
hand, or keep the
sunflower from dying,
it’s an exercise in futility.
And when you finally
get this, for one golden
moment you keep the
mad house at bay.

Another lunatic trip to
the hospital.
Nine days, this
go around.
For the first two
days, I just pulled
the covers over my
head and pretended I
was back in the womb.
It was warm and safe.
As much as I
wanted to stay,
I knew it was time to
be reborn into this
strange world of
sick streets, and
broken dreams.

Another lunatic trip to
the hospital.
Nine days, this
go around.
For the first two
days, I just pulled
the covers over my
head and pretended I
was back in the womb.
It was warm and safe.
As much as I
wanted to stay,
I knew it was time to
be reborn into this
strange world of
sick streets, and
broken dreams.

I first heard the
lullaby in the
womb.
It has a pulse
and rhythm.
It was embedded in
my tissue and cells.
And when I was shot out,
****** and naked,
the cord was cut.
The journey began.

At five years old,
I remember closing
my eyes, and lying
down to go to sleep,
it felt like I was
being rocked.
I wonder if the
subconscious mind was
remembering the
rhythm of the womb.
My Mom--pregnant with me
walking upstairs--downstairs,
elevators
escalators
movement
pulse,
the eternal lullaby of
the womb.
When I closed my
eyes, it felt like I
was being rocked.
It felt like I was
in a swing;
back and forth.
Easy, like a fragrant
spring night.

I feel and hear the
pulse--the rhythm,
the heart in everything.
In footsteps--in the wind,
in the ancient river, and
in the mermaid's song.
I feel it in
the beating of the
hummingbird's wings.
I see it in
Van Gogh's jagged sky,
in the flight pattern
of the wasp.

There is a rhythm in
death and birth.
Oh my God, the rapture of
the rhythm of love and
joy--so sublime.
The primal beat of a
heartbreak--pain,
like painting with
blood.
So real
too lucid.
Icarus, let's fly into
the sun, drunk on
***** or cheap wine.
We'll escape--liquid smooth,
until our wings melt,
and we fall back down,
crash
to the pulse
the rhythm
***  ***
***  ***
***  ***.

Sometimes,
I wish I were
a rock.

Sometimes, I think I feel too much, like I crossed into a world of shadows; like there's been some kind of mistake.
Life seems to sharp, to vivid,
too right there in my face.
I feel like a stranger.  It's as if I were on a bus, and out of the tinted windows, things looked vaguely familiar. I pull the string and get off.
It's the wrong stop, it's the wrong world. The bus has disappeared;
there's no way home.  I used to stand on a bridge that a river flowed under. And off in the distance, high atop the ash trees, the eagles were nesting. They were so beautiful and serene.
I can't watch them anymore. It breaks my **** heart to see all the concrete and construction inch closer and closer to the little slice of heaven they found in a piece of nature
that seemed vaguely
familiar.

**** to
some
is
erotica to
others.

A feast to
me
maybe
a snack
to you.

We see things
differently
through filtered
eyes,
with varying
experiences.

Open
minds
think beyond
good and
evil.

I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

I'm back in the psyche ward again.
It's my home away from home,
next to jail and the emergency room.
I sat under the bridge the other night.
It was January, and extremely cold.
I was jonesing for a drink—I knew what I had to do.
I had only been out of jail for a
couple of days for another public intox.
I narrowly avoided going back to the can today.
My nut-job girlfriend said,
"Why don't you get us some wine? " "Sure, " I said.
Shaking and sick, I walked a mile to
my favorite store that I steal ***** from.
I arrived, and had a bad feeling, but I
don't pay much attention to feelings anymore.
In and out is always the plan.
A bottle of chardonnay down the front
of the pants, and one in the coat.
I thought I had it. I was wrong.
A customer saw me and snitched me off.
I went with the manager to his office.
A cop showed up shortly afterwards.
I engaged the store-guy with talk of literature.
It turned out he was an
English major.
I wrote down the title of my book,
and slipped it to him. He put the paper
in his wallet. He told the cop that I was very cooperative.
Instead of taking me to jail,
the cop gave me a citation with a
court date on it, and let me go.
Sometimes, providence smiles on me.
On my way back to the apartment,
I was already planning the next store to hit,
I needed a drink.
The cop, from the store, pulled up along side of me,
and said,
"Your girlfriend called, she said she didn't
want you at her place anymore.
All your stuff is in front of her door."
I felt like I'd been run over by a rhino.
The cop said,
"I'll give you a lift, jump in."
When I arrived, there were two loosely
packed bags of clothes weighing around 100 pounds.
There was no way in hell that I could
have carried all that crap eight miles to Iowa City.
I grabbed a back pack, and stuffed it with a pair
of jeans, two shirts, my writing, and a copy of Don Quixote.
I went outside and waved to the cop, then headed towards town.
I finally made it back to the bridge.
I waited to get the nerve to make
my next move—steal wine.
I did it, and with no cork *****,
I opened it with a broken ink pen.
I'm not complaining, it was the needed elixir
and it went down like nectar of the gods.
I drank it quick, it was three degrees out.
Life had to change.
This was getting real old.

If I could take this
moment and
own it,
hold it,
like a piece of paper,
I'd fold it
and
stow it away,
like
a pocket knife.

If you would be
my wife,
I'd be the
happiest guy in
the world.
You'd be my
girl,
and I'd be your man...
I would hold
your hand and kiss you,
and you'd never
miss me again.

What's there to say when
your two best friends die a
day apart?

Greg died crossing the street,
smacked by a minivan.
Tibbs, from some strange
brain quirk.
I did C.P.R to no avail.

They're both gone.
They sailed away.
Gone like the last
spider of *****.
Gone like the songs we
sang together.

Sometimes
I still look for you two.
I turn corners and I half
expect to see one of you.
So ******* alive one minute,
so dead the next.

Both of them
fathers,
friends, and men
of valor.
Iowa City is a
******* place without you.
If there's a Brightside,
it's a brutal winter
and you don't have to
suffer through it.

I hope death is treating
you warm and well.
Your hell was
here.
Struggling for that
drink;
to be okay- to get that click,
to carry on, one more
grueling day.

It's over now.
You're gone.
Gone like the last Dodo bird;
gone like your impish smiles.
Gone like the miles we
trod with bags full of
aluminum nickels.

Words can't express the
mess
I am without the two
of you.
I know I'll see you again,
out there beyond the
purple horizon.
#friendship #death

I'm going through a dry spell.  I thought a challenge would be fun. Write your best tribute to Charles Bukowski poem or write a poem that could be a lost poem of Bukowskis'.  He is my favorite writer and I thought maybe this Challenge would break my writer's block.  Be sure to put in the Author's notes the mention that it is a poemfor the Thomas w. Case/ Bukowski challenge.

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun, is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in a wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

He had that
groaning soul
loneliness, like a
puffy white cloud,
floating aimless, and
aching toward the
black abyss--that gray sky
sadness;
like he was
five years old and just
watched his dog get
hit by a car.
You could smell
the pain--taste it,
like potato chips on a
sore throat.
It smelled like a
basement or cobwebs.
I told him, "Nothing will heal that crap,
just time and dirt."
He didn't blink,
and his soft walnut eyes
flashed
crossword confusion.

He had that
groaning soul
loneliness, like a
puffy white cloud,
floating aimless and
aching toward the
black abyss- that gray sky
sadness,
like he was
five years old, and just
watched his dog get
hit by a car.
You could smell
the pain- taste it
like potato chips on a
sore throat.
It smelled like a
basement or cobwebs.
I told him,
'Nothing will fix that
****- just time and dirt.'
He didn't blink,
and his soft walnut eyes
flashed
crossword confusion.

There's ether in
the cloud at the
bottom of the hill.
Birthdays come and
go,
and they seal the deal.
Feelings change with
the wind,
but time is real.
It's a thief,
and it likes to steal.

Thank God those
febrile nightmares of
youth are gone.
I long for the
numbing fog.
The dust of dreams
linger when I awake,
like a fly in
a glue-trap.

My mind is nebulous as
I try to recall
the nocturnal visits.
Legs tired from running;
**** sore from *******.
I've played doctor for years
trying to reverse this curse,
prescribing: women, drugs,
***** by the barrels,
searching for that ambrosia,
that nectar of the gods that
makes life less vivid and sharp,
and puts the sleep back in
my eyes.

There is a
force at work that
doesn't want me
to write.
There's always
something vying for
my attention.
The phone rings,
the kittens want
played with,
I get *****.
All I have to
do is think about
writing, and the
next thought is
I should take
a nap.

To read about
writing
isn't enough.
To promote my
writing won't cut
it either.
To finish one more
poem, to communicate
something worthwhile
is what will help
me sleep tonight, and
keep the undertaker
lonely and afraid.

She was dressed
business **** the
night we
read poetic love
letters to each other on
public access television.
It was like
that mad moon night was
made just for us.
Magic show in between our
readings.
Is it all just a dream,
dreamt by a dormouse
asleep in a ***** bottle?
Don't wake that furry little
screwball.
This can't end.
Wedding plans,
torts and tarts, and
a tiara for my queen.
My heart is stained by
her love.
My soul reeks of
our champagne celebration.
Life,
together forever,
unmolested by
the concrete and the crows,
and the godless
heathens, bent on
their toboggan ride to
hell.

She was too drunk.
She had drank a fifth of *****
over the course of four hours.
Oh we tried, but it wasn't happening.
It was sloppy and cumbersome;
we were like two hippos wrestling
in the mud.
I got up and left her to her
impotent dreams.
I made a cup of coffee, and
sat in the dark.
Images ran through my mind.
I turned on a light, and started
writing.At least something was working.

I lie in a bed in
the hospital that
we lay down
in together a
couple of years ago.
I held her.
She was tired after
work.
I can't go anywhere that
memories
don't haunt me;
chase me
like a rabid dog.
But,
this is too much.
I can see her,
smell her,
taste her.
And my
heart breaks when
I open
my eyes, and
face the loveless
sun
like a knife.

Our relationship is toxic, like a river of ****
or a mercury stained fish,
We argue all the time—we hit each other.
We bring up past indiscretions and affairs.
After we haven't seen each other for a while,
it all starts off well enough;
we're like dogs in heat.
We **** constantly, then the inevitable
moment comes when one of us will say, "…and
wouldn't a glass of wine be nice? "
"Yes, yes it would."
Then it turns into bottles of wine,
then *****, then you calling the cops
and getting me kicked out.
Next thing I know I'm under a bridge
in the middle of ******* winter.
You're in your nice warm apartment drinking
your Chardonnay, dancing with
your toothless neighbor and
driving around with your ex-boyfriend.
I can drink myself to death on my own;
I don't need some wack-job to help me.
At times your ****** might have
been my warped little god,
but it's time I excommunicate myself
from the church of your *******.

As I hear the wind blow through the leaves of the ancient cottonwood trees.
And I watch the squirrels gather their nuts and prepare for the coming winter, I'm reminded of a few things that come softly in the whisper of the autumn wind for all to hear, if they listen.

Behind the poem is a poet, a lover, maybe a mother or a father. But most of all there is a human being. They feel, and they love. They have been overwrought with pain. And enraptured by Joy. They need  compassion and friendship and the human touch.
Tread lightly, for you tread upon
their hearts.

Psilocybin silly when the
cops arrive.
Sitting on the couch naked,
laughter aching jaws.
They ask where my wallet is?
I ask, where my pants are?
Even they laugh.
I can't say mushrooms are
all bad.
They are the catalyst that
brought me back to the
hospital to deal with the
real killer...
*****.

Mom took my brother and
I to the cemetery when
we were kids.
Her mother and grandma
were there underneath the
grass and dirt.
The spring breeze felt
good on my face.
We put carnations and
lilacs on all the graves.
She told us stories about
our dead relatives.
The tombstones, with the
dates seemed ancient and
final.

After flowering all the
graves, we went to
the pond and fed
the ducks and swans.
There was a fire in
their eyes.
They were always
hungry.
They gobbled the bread
and swam in circles.

When we became
teenagers, Mom took
us to the cemetery, and
taught us how to drive.
She said it was
safer there.
We couldn't ****
anyone.

Many years later
I took my little sons to
cemetery.
I showed them all
the graves and told
the old family stories.
"That's your grandma,"  I said,
pointing to the tombstone.
"She brought me here,
when I was your age."

My oldest son, Zach, who was
seven at the time said,
"When I get old,
I'm going to bring my kids
here to visit the family.
Will you come with us, Daddy?"
"Sure", I said.
Let's feed the swans.

Hobbled by the
sun, and laid
prostrate by
days of
degenerate
behavior.
Days of
nothingness,
and worse.
Only writing
could save me.

Poor and lonely.
No warm woman to
hold.
No *****.
No home.
But, I had my
writing.
It let the light in,
and buffered me from
the crowds of
scarecrows with sewn
on smiles.

Writing keeps me
immortal and kills
the pain.
It soothes the
mice lost in
the maze, and
brings the stray cat
home to a house where
he's safe.
Writing is the
pillow that keeps
my head up, and
my heart engaged.

I don't want to go a
gentle journey,
from convoluted to
convalescence.
I quit drinking again;
found love in
the psych ward.
She's my broken-winged
angel.
So much pain behind that
sweet smile.
She's drinking again,
and I can't fix her.
It hurts, like an arrow
through the stomach.

I have a rabbit that comes
to my yard.
She lies in the same
spot every day.
So much so, that
she has worn down a
place for herself--the surrounding
grass grows around her.
She feels safe.
I feed her spinach, and my
brother sings her
show tunes.
That's what we get
for having a drama
teacher for a father.
Thanks, Dad.

It's been an unseasonably
cold April.
I feel sorry for Harvey;
That's her name, thanks
again Dad.
I talk to her softly.
"Hi, baby--what are you doing?
Do you want to come in?"
She doesn't answer.  I'm sober.
I want to take care of her...
Both of them...
My two little bunnies.
It's cold, and the wind is
blowing hard,
beneath a mean grey sky.

I don't want to go a
gentle journey,
from convoluted to
convalescence.
I quit drinking again;
found love in
the psych ward.
She's my broken-winged
angel.
So much pain behind that
sweet smile.
She's drinking again,
and I can't fix her.
It hurts, like an arrow
through the stomach.

I have a rabbit that comes
to my yard.
She lies in the same
spot every day.
So much so, that
she has worn down a
place for herself--the surrounding
grass grows around her.
She feels safe.
I feed her spinach, and my
brother sings her
show tunes.
That's what we get
for having a drama
teacher for a father.
Thanks, Dad.

It's been an unseasonably
cold April.
I feel sorry for Harvey;
That's her name, thanks
again Dad.
I talk to her softly.
"Hi, baby--what are you doing?
Do you want to come in?"
She doesn't answer.  I'm sober.
I want to take care of her...
Both of them...
My two little bunnies.
It's cold, and the wind is
blowing hard,
beneath a mean grey sky.

I was walking in
that old betrayer,
rain.
I was soaked to the gills,
and my wingtips were
sloshing on every
broken sidewalk.
The wind took my last
match, so smoking was out.
I'd give my liver for
a lighter and two
dimes to rub together.
I think I'll join the
carnival, get on that
tunnel of love and never
get off.

She steals candles from
the craft store.
I stole a ceramic
rooster for her and said,
“Here’s your ****.”
We rock the stores like
they’re our *****.
It’s like an itch that
has to be scratched.
We get drunk, and
It’s game on—it’s a high like
******* in public,
like that first
shot when you’re
shaking
and sick.
Someday, it will all
come crashing down,
but until then,
it’s the flash of
lightning and the crown.

My alter ego,
Thomas, seems to have the same problem I do.
He's in the hospital withdrawing from alcohol, and also has politicians
taking refuge under his bed.
The lice in Donald's Trump's hair
have demanded rice for breakfast
and it's 4:00 in the afternoon.
Bernie Sanders is under their clamoring free medical care for everybody, but every time I put the nurses light on and tell them what's going on they say no one's under the bed. I think they're in on it.  If this doesn't stop the doctors will think I'm crazy, but we know who the crazy ones are. Right?

My derelict soul
rolls west, to under
the Benton Street Bridge.
The bridge is strange and
lonely and changed, with
Steve and Scott dead.
Both of them died on
the railroad tracks.
The ducks are still there,
under the Benton Street Bridge.
A feral calico cat stalks
them with death and
hunger in her eyes.
The river's up.
Fish jump where me
and Carl used to sit and
sing old Motown songs.
I'm in the nut ward for
the umpteenth time.
***** induced madness.
Pensive about life;
bereft of hope,
I wonder:
Am I just a lost duck?
Maybe I'll ask that
slender cat.

Cleanse me from
the dust of
the night, and
the apocalyptic
visions of my
slumber.
Fish guts, ****, or
insomnia may have
conjured these rotting
skin nightmares,
these mosquitoes from
hell.
I struggled to wake up,
but couldn't, and finally,
while I was flying in
a gray land of desolation,
and killers,
of nighthawks and harpies.
I soared through a
hazy wasteland, and arrived
safely back home
in my serene, August Sabbath.