Bukowski Mondays: Cows In Art Class

good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn’t always happen
and when it does
it doesn’t
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he’s bad
there’s more chance
he’ll stay that way,
or if he’s good
he might hang
but a woman
is changed
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
by being hated.
I am drinking tonight in Spangler’s Bar
and I remember the cows
I once painted in Art class
and they looked good
they looked better than anything
in here. I am drinking in Spangler’s Bar
wondering which to love and which
to hate, but the rules are gone:
I love and hate only
they stand outside me
like an orange dropped from the table
and rolling away; it’s what I’ve got to
kill myself or
love myself?
which is the treason?
where’s the information
coming from?
books…like broken glass:
I wouldn’t wipe my ass with ‘em
yet, it’s getting
darker, see?
(we drink here and speak to
each other and
seem knowing.)
buy the cow with the biggest
buy the cow with the biggest
present arms.
the bartender slides me a beer
it runs down the bar
like an Olympic sprinter
and the pair of pliers that is my hand
stops it, lifts it,
golden piss of dull temptation,
I drink and
stand there
the weather bad for cows
but my brush is ready
to stroke up
the green grass straw eye
sadness takes me all over
and I drink the beer straight down
order a shot
to give me the guts and the love to

Appears in Poems Written Before Jumping Out Of An 8 Story Window, 1968 and The Roominghouse Madrigals, 1988


A Lost Generation

Slivers of thought bombard my mind
with endless bullshit
sprawled across landscapes
made of cement.

Blistering our faces upon rumble,
falling victim to the shadows between
window sills.
Yelling for anyone near.
No answer.
No cares.
No empathy.

normality .

Lost are the times where
heroes were given parades,
television told the truth,
and “Genius” meant something
had been done for the first time.

Heartless events happen to
shallow minds.
Following the lepers of industry,
strangers shine through houses made of glass.
Looking back at nothingness.

Neon Light

Staring outside of my window at 1am.
The glare of the neon sign
luminating from the whore house next door
is the only light to saturate,
to penetrate
my one room fortress.

As I type the words that
keep me alive,
the tapping of the keys
keep being interrupted by the high-pitched
wheezing, and crackling sound
of the nauseating fluorescence.

Nearing its last breath, the painful chalkboard like screech
only gets louder, yet, is my calm.
Every spark that passes beyond its rough, decrepit metal exterior
tells me the night is almost over as the vibrant red X’s
turn pale and seep into the gutter below–
going out one by one.
I am nearly blind.
Only minutes left till the dimness overwhelms me,
I am left to let go and to back away from my lifeline.

At least I will still have the drunken gibberish
spewing from the “Johns” below since daylight ruins the night.


Words dissolve into the sea
and disappear
as if nothing was said.

The ones that were spoken and said
are lost unless better men come along
with a history that isn’t banal.

Paper white filled with mistakes
fly and flutter like leaves off branches,
onto the rotting, unsettled floor.
Out of sight,
out of mind.

As if a street lamp whimpers its last breath
out in the dying rain.
Someday these lost words will resurface
in the souls of geniuses
to old to die.

Bukowski Mondays: quiet clean girls in gingham dresses

all I’ve ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes,
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women ­ I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.

all I’ve ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen.

when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.

I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or

“don’t ever bring a whore around,” I tell my
few friends, “I’ll fall in love with her.”

“you couldn’t stand a good woman, Bukowski.”

I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.

I know that she exists
but where is she upon this earth
as the whores keep finding me?

Bukowski Mondays on a Tuesday: Be Kind

we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
no matter how
foolish or

one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
especially if they are

but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
because they have
out of focus,
they have refused to

not their fault?

whose fault?

I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately

among so many


The Revolution is Being YouTubed

Death begets the daylight
as gas masks suffocate our breaths,
losing ourselves from
our own past.

Generations glisten with pride
about the suffrages put upon
its members like medals.

The horror show that is this generation,
changes what came before,
yet stays the same:
The same people hold picket signs,
The same people yell and scream,
The same people pull punches,
The same people walk in circles
sharing the demands
That won’t change a thing.

Only this time I’m watching
the revolution be televised on a five minute clip
while getting drunk and masturbating
to a girl fingering her clit.

Published in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Issue 12, June ’12 &
my poetry collection, Scribbling From a Beer-Stained Napkin: Find What You Love and Let it Kill You