My shirt hangs off your *******
Like a flag on a conquered citadel

I will pay hell for this
But not in this life

It is my sincere hope that at the end of this tunnel
Awaits a light that illuminates the constellations
That I could once see in your hands.

You is all of you. And I need to fall in love with all of you
Again.

Each and every one of you.

There was a boy
Three fingers on each hand
Bent spine
"We have to spend..."
Money
"On your surgeries..."
Parents said to him
He overdosed
On painkillers
His brother went
To a good College

They moved in back in 1956
New lovers, New breath, New life
A New house. Yellow and white shutters,
The lake in plain view, sloped lawn.
Children came forth, grew, left
Dandelion seeds on a wind's ride.
They planted a tree in the back
It grew as they shrunk. The wife died.
Dad can't stay on his own, we must
Find him a home. We're too busy, Susan
and Bill just had a baby. Put him on a shelf
In the closet. For sale sign comes up.
Old money young couple in a Black SUV.
The white shutters should be blue. The yellow
Is an off color. This tree in the back simply
Won't do. It blocks the view. It must come down.
Memories rot and rust and are painted over
The stain in the carpet where she spilled her wine
That one night when they had a little too
Much to drink, they fell into each others
Arms. Rip out the carpet.
The tree must come down.

Things are as they are
That is a double edged sword
Things are as they are-
And things are as they are

Let that be a lesson to you
Beautiful soul
That we wander this landscape together
Despite the ties of seemingly conventional wisdom

She kissed the trinkets pinned to the walls
Like memories which crawl inside my mind's halls

Delicately she took each one down
A pursing of lips and a little downward frown

A slip of a finger and the glass began to flow
Down her forearms as the puddles began to grow

And she stood *****, the shock filled her eyes
As the red liquid flowed like a river of dyes

I turned and walked along alone with myself as it fell
And neither of us has ever seemed to listen very well

But it's all well and good; I'll do as I should
And I'll say all the things I swore I never would

These words are meaningless.
Like crumpled up husks or
A pile of ashes. They'll be
Blown about and tossed by the
Wind and yet I still find myself
Writing them.

It was one of those
Mornings
Where everything seemed
Farther away than
it actually
was.

The formula to go from
Depressed
To
Manic
Is this-
12 beers
2 valiums
A whiskey on the rocks
A beautiful sunset
And an hour of Bukowski

And then I realized-
I am not suffering.
The I is not constant.
The sick father, that is
Constant. The drawling
Pain of humanity, that
Is constant. Those of us,
The Bukowski's, are merely
Those conscious of the
Continuous and everlasting
Stream of human
Suffering.

Imagine a nightmare
While you're awake.

Imagine a knife's edge
With a ghost at the hilt.

Imagine a death
Not instantaneous.

We only harden ourselves
When we are truly threatened

Until then, we love
And we love viciously

We both know how addicting
It is to lose your humanity.

I saw the woman again.
The one who looked as if she has
Lost a child.
(I grew to love a face who lost a child)
There's nothing quite like that look
Behind those hollowed out eyes.
Wilting instead of blinking. The tired,
Weighted expression where lips have been
Draw tight to teeth by years
Of choking back tears.

In that moment, a flash, an instance
I chased Orion's heels across the sky
Swiftly moving a light-year's distance
Nebulous flash, a star prepared to die

Smoke trails that never left the room
A soft sunlight through the two windows
So many memories crammed into that little room
The tiny kitchen where you cooked breakfast
With your tiny little shorts
You called me with your tiny little voice
Dorian Grey open on the bed
A cocktail of emotion on the counter

Caught up in the appearance of it,
The inner movement means nothing.

It does not matter the bending of the tree,
Only the color of its autumn leaves.

The glow, the sparkle, the flash, the color only,
The darkness within, the silent movement is nothing.

Pretty to the eye, soft to the touch,
These tactile stimuli are sought after.

Astounded by the beauty on the outside
Terrified of what lies beneath. The unknown.

The summer sun is so beautiful,
What then of the snow? The dark clouds?

Is not every silent movement of nature,
Beautiful in its own form and nature?

The appearance, my friend. Pluck and pull,
Tighten and pin. Paint your face on.

What lies beneath? But the echo and rustle,
Of the dead, sullen, dried husks. Dead souls.

It has been Seventeen
Months since I last wrote

The ink grew stale in the air
Of the outside world.

The prison bars become thicker
and the canvas is smeared

No rhyme, no reason
A simple etching

I think of the insipiration of
Insanity, like a falling rain

A drought has come
And dried this land

Even the star of our solar system
Is blocked out by mere vapors

Even the clouds
Can hide the rays of the sun

I was going to write something
But then I lost it.
****.

Tethered in cement fields
By steel clocks
Nothing is real.

If it weren't for the fear
Of hell
I'd be gone

Burnt words die as embers turn to grey
The fluxuations are as predictable as death
I’ve tied the burdened mind to the lightening rod

The random movement
Feels scripted.

Have you ever stepped out in front of a moving car?
Have you ever nearly fell backwards down a flight of stairs?
Have you ever had gun metal pushed up against your skull?
Have you ever had a blade flash under a streetlight in front of you like the teeth of a rabid dog?
Have you ever climbed to the edge of a tall building?
Have you ever been cornered in a lie?
Have you been completely uncovered?
Entirely discovered?
Soul unearthed?

Die three times and I’ll show you life.