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.