Good poetry is clever. Great poetry is truth.
I’m in love. I’m in pain. I’m in love. I’m in pain. I’m in love. I’m in pain… I’m in love.
I open one eye the other has fallen behind. In fact, it may not get up today at all and I would be forced to wear a patch or explain why it is that I look like I’m having a continuous stroke: “Oh my eye? No, it’s not lazy or reluctant. It’s dead. That’s okay. […]
This is me in here trapped, tragic and tearing out life in words worlds whittled out from sadness out into the dark from light out from my hand out like a melody from the tree from which robins sing. I speak the language of birds calamitous harmony in my happiness when I am alone always […]
The breeze blows in from unknown places it sails my paper plane into the wide open sky of a child’s eyes wild with dreams a soft kiss of wind remember remember what it was like the living sky enchanted the evening it comes it drums alive drowned in summer chanting as crickets dance beneath the […]
Did you love it? To keep hitting like an excited child what has been hurt as it tries to crawl away? I had never loathed your biting because all that you are is teeth and your teeth are still in me. I could feel you inside of my chest like a heartbeat and I didn’t […]
There’s an itch on my foot inside of my shoe and I can’t get rid of it each time I try to scratch it it moves then returns five minutes later and I can never seem to nail down the spot to relieve it and it’s slowly driving me crazy. And I just wanted you […]
Through the Moon Run your hand through your hair Silly Child and you’ll drag my heart through the moon I am a far away star unventured cocksure and fiercely bright But there are things left out in the cold unchained that can ruin a feast and I am sun-drenched with shame to what I awaken […]
Monday is a duplicitous treacherous whore a midnight murderer (you’re next -it will find you) a useless begging in a dingy alley Monday is going to kill me kill me dead just like my brain -dead just like my soul -dead dead dead Monday is an old man that doesn’t want to get up from […]
Listening to Bukowski speak the way he finished his sentences his enunciation and emphasis; he was walking through a poem when he spoke about everything and it makes you realize this one thing: that we are always writing thoughts even as we walk even as we talk we are moving living being dreaming singing art. […]