the near fatal recognition of

what lies beneath your own sighs. yearning for women that do not respond or do not reflect your feelings. an immobile bruise. seeks neither to bury itself or evaporate/distill/ascend/whatever wounds that honor the continuity of time do when they realize healing may lend strength to the weak. sorry to all, apologies all around. the smiles are scarce these days, the trust is gratuitous and gruesome: thrown in all directions in an ambivalent attempt to reserve the will to live. the will to live, just another figment, another set of words. if it were self-evident, the issue would not be having faith in the living or pursuing one's own fulfillment, but rather the discovery of methods most likely to ensure fulfillment. the alternative to this utopia, the only dissonant, valueless facade we can will suffering for is that which engenders peril from purity and bewilderment from clarity. is it too much to ask to be acknowledge? i'd rather be a mole on her asscheek. I'd rather unite incontrovertibly with the lips she pours compliments to other men from. to shrink myself to half the size of a single synaptic chasm, and catch an impulse of hers with bare hands. hold it with me until i evaporate/dissolve/descend/whatever suppressed favorites do when they realize reemerging is a whole and a half of the beauty of nostalgia. do it. and then do it again, because love is to be sought, fought for, reached, captured, and mangled until malignancy becomes sovereign state of your hellhold for two. cry out from below, the only place she cannot be removed from. it is her passions that will sew your death certificate: the document will be of wool and some other man's, whom she compliments, semen will glue rice to build the letters. it will read like a yeats poem. your dirt will read like a earthly trophy; proof god exists and weeds out the weak. and i will evaporate/dissipate/burn to ash by the fuel of continuity/whatever young, wound up spirited men do when their lover decides elsewhere to spawn love. 2 more arms, much stronger. 2 more legs, much firmer, 1 dick, much more fervor, 1 mind, much smarter. out done, out done, out done.

O tempora! O mores!

by Bukowski

I get these girly magazines in the mail because
I'm writing short stories for them again
and here in these pages are these ladies
exposing their jewel boxes -
it looks more like a gynecologist's
journal -
everything boldly and clinically
exposed
beneath bland and bored physiognomies.
it's a turn-off of gigantic
proportions:
the secret is in the
imagination -
take that away and you have dead
meat.

a century back
a man could be driven mad
by a well-turned
ankle, and
why not?
one could imagine
that the rest
would be
magical
indeed!

now they shove it at us like a
McDonald's hamburger
on a platter.

there is hardly anything as beautiful as
a woman in a long dress

not even the sunrise
not even the geese flying south
in the long V formation
in the bright freshness
of early morning.

What to do, what to do

Hope for us.

you
there
standing around like
the figment of
some preteen's too-intensely
idealized
imagination.
Let it go,
let it all go.
THe only remains of it
exist between
the same ears
that recorded her every word.
Let it go.
The beating beasts beneath
our chests are an endangered
species.
So let it go.
We are all alike but we are not
the same.
A cesspool of excuses
is what we dig our bitter little hands
into for relief,
though nothing of aid can be said
when you prefer a grave to a hospital bed.
So let it go.
Because a bruise is no less a shield than a scab is.
Once injured you're not more likely to be
had
than those who inexperience
has given naivety.
So let it go.
Let it go.
It ends on its own, but only
if you believe it should.
Emotions have the lung capacity
of spaceships.
I know.
But let it go.
Its worth letting go.
They, he, she, everyone who has
Stolen pieces of the lifetime you belong in
is worth letting go of.
So let it go.
Affection is our only remaining importance in this
configured torture.
So give it to someone who needs it.
And let it go.
You are their holocausts,
their hollow causes,
their extremities of perseverance,
and their mistakes.
You are like them,
you are similar to all who have suffered,
but you are not them.
So let it go.
Who wonders for any other reason than
to wander from the present?
We all do.
So let it go.
Wander only from that which has left you.
Bind not to what will not even
look you in the eye to say thank you
or fuck you.
Let it go.
Give in to the notion
of a continuation,
undetermined, but inevitable,
if you
let it go.

Something someone sent me about something important to me.

so we sit and sip morning cups,
bravado keeping us safe from
no news that is good
news as countless
flames burn across
desert lands and infants wash up on freedom's
shores
before the lawns gets
trimmed and a neighbor your
kids played with hits the
headlines only to be
labeled "a nice guy"
you went to church with,
while his petite
wife sent
memos off reminding all
of the annual bake sale,
sure to raise not quite
enough to paint the barn
but more than too much,
as the Mercedes clearly shows you
three small faces deprived
and hand picked for effective
representation of how your
life
is perfectly fine
given the fact that you do nothing for those in need
and repulsive guilt is the
message intended
to open the escape way for your
soul if you
only send twenty three cents a day
multiplied by three hundred and sixty five days
which in exponential terms
becomes so many numbers (608,637,500.00 to be exact)
that a blinded mass
of self indulgent sinners
looks North as ninety six percent of
the till faces a
fate three small faces would gladly except,
for to be burned up as
quickly, would be the easy way out,
for they do not exist unless a humble man walks
them in to your living room
and force feeds them to you
before you remotely
remember that the big game
is on and you change...the channel

Bukowski and Fugazi

This is a world where everybody's gotta do something. Y'know, somebody laid down this rule that everybody's gotta do something, they gotta be something. You know, a dentist, a glider pilot, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that. Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that. - Henry from Barfly, an semi-autobiographical movie based on Charles Bukowski's time spent in Los Angeles, getting his wino on, like a boss.



Fugazi- Burning too


Anytime but now
Anywhere but here
Anyone but me
I've got to think about my own life
We are consumed by society
We are obsessed with variety
We are all filled with anxiety that this world would not survive
We gotta put it out the sky is burning
We gotta put it out the water's burning
We gotta put it out the earth is burning
Outrage but then they say...
Anytime but now
Anywhere but here
Anyone but me
I've got to think about my own life
The world is not our facility
We have a responsibility
To use our abilities to keep this place alive
Right here right now
Do it. Now. Do it.

Trashcan Lives

the wind blows hard tonight
and it's a cold wind
and I think about
the boys on the row.
I hope some of them have a bottle of
red.

it's when you're on the row
that you notice that
everything
is owned
and that there are locks on
everything.
this is the way a democracy
works:
you get what you can,
try to keep that
and add to it
if possible.

this is the way a dictatorship
works too
only they either enslave or
destroy their
derelicts.

we just forgot
ours.

in either case
it's a hard
cold
wind