Exactly

Those who say the poet is a very private and precious person I don’t agree with. Generally he is just a dumb, fuddling asshole writing insecure lines that don’t come through. Believing he’s immortal. Waiting for his immortality which never arrives, because the poor fucker just can’t write.

-Charles Bukowski

A haiku for Ken's return to Spokane

You pulled the trigger.
Blamed me for stepping in front.
So I pled guilty.


Sidenote: Pled is not the correct past tense form of "Plead", but I don't give a fuck what yo' dikshunayree says!

Return to Zion

"Don't finish that bottle off,"
I tell her,
"I'll need something to
drink tomorrow night. When
I'm alone."
Stunning holograms
mimic folding screens,
portable partitions,
and castle moats.
Who dares to enter
this facade of a division?
If my eyes could fuck you,
we wouldn't need to
waste so much time
establishing foreign policy.
The worst nights are those
where I am too drunk to drive
but not drunk enough
to sleep.
But you left enough liquid courage
for me to face my nightmares
this time.
And for that, I owe my deepest empathy
to those who have none.
May resentment come
all too soon for the righteous
and disheartened.

I was so on the clock when I wrote this

They all walk
with purpose, downtown.
They fear
being caught gawking
or wondering.
Panhandlers always
chase the first twinkle of
awe. To be caught
off the trail here
means certain
change purse death.
They're staring at me, now.
At the shrine of cigarette butts
I've erected to the deity of
warm weather absorption.
At the collection of pages
I hold that look nothing
like memos
and legal briefs.

Young Man Leaves Party

my take on Mark Strand's 'Old Man Leaves Party'

My tie was pre-loosened.
This was not to be like before.
Saturdays are not Fridays.
I didn't perceive breaking her heart
I promise.
Not on Saturday.
Seemed like more of a Tuesday thing.
I look like a burnt-out businessman
in a suit.
Or a sleezy car salesman.
The sound of rolling beer bottles
down the street
made more sense as a recording
of "they're laughing at me."
Ha
He's a poet. Its ok.
You won't ever know what I think about you.
unless I tell you.
I've eaten all the taffy I can stand.
Whiskey and ginger ale hurl bricks
through my facade.
I'm a much better actor, sober.

Almost One Night Stand

I drink a different beer tonight.
These are different people.
They drink for escape
and enjoyment.
I drink for work;
to write.
I drink to find
demons I haven't
exorcised yet.
I don't drink to find shelter,
but to escape it.
I drink so I can flirt.
I drink to love you.
I drink to scrawl words
on a notebook
on a porch
on a cigarette
on lips
that I won't bring myself to kiss.
I drink to hurt myself
I drink to remember you.
I drink I drink
Alcohol
Alcohol
Alcohol
Alcohol
And we forget ourselves.

a beginning with no end, yet

I begin to notice
now.
Being downwind from loneliness.
Like raft logs
in whitewater
I am both afloat
and sunken,
praying for
the day I am
named driftwood
and burn
as two soulmates
spend sand in
the search for beauty
not seen by firelight.
I have not been
waterlogged, yet.
But I've swallowed
my share of rapids.
There is not
enough wine
in this world
to wash me from you
I know this
and I almost apologized, but I was far too jealous.

Free Writes to Catch Up

Mark and Danielle are pulling steady with NaPoWriMo, I am not.
But I have been freewriting lately, thanks to this Bukowski quote from his poem, 'How to be a great writer'.

"...get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window

hit that thing
hit it hard

make it a heavyweight fight

make it the bull when he first charges in."

So here are the freewrites, hot off the typewriter, typos corrected, untitled.

You forgot,
quiet mouse,
that we used to be in love.
As though a fact that
obvious could be claimed by humans.
We only know of god
and the mixture of salt
and chocolate.
Any creature with
the knowledge of a tomorrow
cannot love.
Its obvious, we must forgive
our minds for changing.
And our livers for giving in
to our heart's repair settings.
Which set of eyes
will finally send me into cirrhosis?
Hopefully, she will be brilliant
and i can blame it
on intelligent design;
interior lead coated semi-
gloss.
Shine on, those promises
we kept like secrets
in high school.
I pity those who heed warnings,
for theirs is the kingdom of happiness.




My dad
was everyone's friend.
Sold supplies to contractors
like nails
and wood
and siding
he used to insulate buildings, too.
Tried to buy and flip a house, once.
Always in the best of shape to help a friend
in need.
Never found without a white Bic lighter.
Used it when his turn signal broke.
Drove a silver Nissan
that would overheat
when he drove long distances.
Had to fix that
Had to fix the house
Had to fix the supply order
Had to blow insulation
no wonder
he never had time
for me.


I'm too drunk to call,
besides,
I don't remember your phone number.
But I wanted to punch this into your
nose. Hope
it breaks
into your cerebellum like frostbite
thawed by the heater in my car.
This is not
near as painful
as watching you drown
knowing i was the only one who saw
what you could be.
I've been accused of
trusting
and believing
too much, or
not enough.
Those innocent beekeepers
whose hands are history books
know what this life can
pretend it knows.
Punched you in
a dreamcatcher,
no surprise it looks like a spider
web.
What a trap,
sleep is.
When I breathe, moisture
settles into my diaphragm
and condenses
into a precipitate.
That's why it always rains
in my chest.
Contrary to popular belief,
you share no guilt for my
insubordination.
I simply
let
mysel
fgo


I prophesize on
nights like these
that my breast will leap
free from my lungs
and dance like the '20s
were yesterday.
But what do i know
of things like
the past?
Frozen radio control
towers in Chicago reported
that tomorrow might be a real blustery day
but I live in hell,
where its summer, all the time.
Don't attempt to empathize
with gears and transmissions.
They only allow
proper handling of highway junctions
and stop go.
Stop is a vernacular juxtaposition
we need not explore.
Sunset Princess, keep your
tears and attempts at holding on
for church.
I will never admit to missing you.
If Freud was worth a shit,
he would have explained
why hardwood floors make
the best of hammocks
when you're drunk
off sentimentality
and preoccupation of
gotta get it done
gotta get it done
gotta work tomorrow
gotta get a job
gotta remember how to wake up.





I watched a squirrel
groom itself for five minutes.
Then i went to write it down.
It was gone.

I wonder how much life
i have missed
just because i was trying to capture it.

But i am a writer
I am a writer
but
what?

Some of us fall in love
to songs.
Some of us fall in love
to write them
I don' fall in love
I fake it.
and I am a liar
sincerly,






I can't recall what zodiac sign
entered the sun that week.
Nor will images
of weather forecast materialize on
blue screen.
Most of my wardrobe is loaned to friends
or lost in laundry dungeons.
If given a palette i could not
find the colour of your hair.
My bank ledger has no recollection of
what the restaurant's name was.
My chambers hold no scent of
perfume or hairspray.
Your middle name has not left my pen
since that day.
But i remember, vividly,
the rhythm of your breath while you slept.