Bukowski Mondays: White Dog

I went for a walk on Hollywood Boulevard.
I looked down and there was a large white dog
walking beside me.
his pace was exactly the same as mine.
we stopped at traffic signals together.
we crossed the side streets together.
a woman smiled at us.
he must have walked 8 blocks with me.
then I went into a grocery store and
when I came out he was gone.
or she was gone.
the wonderful white dog
with a trace of yellow in its fur.
the large blue eyes were gone.
the grinning mouth was gone.
the lolling tongue was gone.

things are so easily lost.
things just can’t be kept forever.

I got the blues.
I got the blues.
that dog loved and
trusted me and
I let it walk away.

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Waking to a Thumping Heart

Waking to the black rubber tires
of the early morning.
Signaling a day worth two cents,
loud shakes from the building
begin to reverberate my heart.
Losing sight.
Losing fight.

The gravity of the situation
pulls anger closer.
Looking out of the window sill
as the sky is still with ash.
Sleeping side by side empty bottles,
my body has yet to recuperate,
feeling as if thunderous jaunts of Antelopes are running amok
through the middle of my uncorked, uneven insides.

Trying to drain the hurt
yet the sirens twirling outside have other plans.
I think, well go ahead then and save
the whores from next door,
locking back up their thighs
as children begin to trot down the street.

I finally pull my legs over the edge,
gripping the strewn sheets to keep from heaving.
Maybe if objects from the previous night spontaneously fall from above-
The sirens might finally stop.

I end up pulling myself to the fridge to begin the new day.

I need another.

A Punch Drunk Love Letter To The City

I blew smoke in back rooms
filled with pills.
Lost in the haze of darkness,
I came out into the morning light
pedaling faster in my own mind
while the shadows above spill tear drops upon concrete.

Surrounded by the blur of everything,
I walk in silence to my destination.
Laying still upon a tar-mopped rooftop–
the thickness of the black rubber pull at my skin,
suffocating me as I drown.

Overlooking hell I being to smile.

I love living in the city.

Interviews

I drudged up a smile for those warped and
stuck up sycophants dressed
in polyester and argyle nooses.

I sit silently already knowing the outcome.

Those fakes have never known what it feels
like to live day to day
without consciousness,
being a mess.
Life isn’t to be lead with floaties,
you have to drown a few hundred times
to learn how to truly live.

Assholes.
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.


Appears in “Having A Whiskey Coke With You” Issue 9

Bukowski Mondays: Dead

he wrote a joyous and mad
novel about unbelievable and
romantic episodes
and his words danced with
laughter and mockery and
gamble.

the novel made him
famous and he went on
to write others but none
like the first.

then he stopped
writing, came here from
his native land
and became a professor
at a southern
university.

he wears his suit, his
tie, his dignity
as tokens of
respectability
as his students wait
for him to go wild,
to break down the
walls,
to smash glass,
precedence,
minds.

but the semesters
pass, quiet
seasons.

R.I.P.

A Weeping Heart On A White Blank Page

It is better to release your feelings now,
onto pure white landscapes.
So the blood shot dreams of reality
spill onto the souls of dead intellectuals.

It is better than running away,
better than walking the sad, lonely streets
filled with the best and worst of intentions.

Bruised and battered,
soiled with cigarette burns,
and soaked with the foul smell of liquor
from years of being inebriated,
my weeping heart drools spit
while being cut open.

Yearning to live with moxie and
demanding to be real about who I am,
I let the red flow with conviction
in simple sentences onto my machine gun.
Knowing there would be fear and madness
coming out from the spilled ink
makes the dread of death or stopping
something that can never be.

Where Moths Fly In Silence

This thing that comes upon me
crawling up my skin like a snake
is a feeling I have never known.
Neither does it possess death,
but like my heart, it grows inside of me.

This medium called Art
called Poetry
sends me to the brink of madness
with the words that sprout from the tip of my tongue
to the tips of my fingers stained red.
Leaving me left where mindless moths fly overhead.

Being awaken by the pounding of my head,
ready to spill from the night before.
Death was at it again,
which would solve the problems I’ve been suffering.
But with my breathless, ravished hands
I lend a pen down on paper and
begin to weep.