bukowski.

who grabbed the megaphone

who pointed a finger
who burned a crisp dollar bill
who sang hallelujah over a bottle of whiskey
who was the first to admit he cried over his first love lost

while stomping over her grave 

who twisted the commas
the capital letters
who was not afraid 
to manipulate the english language

who was the one who taught us to write about what we saw
our city
our dirty
our hatred
our anger
our red

to drool on a page and call it poetry
to offend somebody
to set fire to a memory they destroyed
then sleep next to the ashes

when there were no rules
and no boundaries
no six am alarm clocks
no morning train
no application forms
no child support
no rent due
no hail Mary's

or I wish I was a better man

He wrote 

damp soliloquies
on prostitutes
and garbage bags

discarded cigarettes
and sidewalk graffiti

he spoke over stale liquor

and failed childhood dreams 

he wrote 

one of the last brave souls to do so. 

Thats how I know its over.

It’s the flick of a wrist
or the turn in your neck
the tapping of a foot
the way one leg crosses the other
the lapse between sighs
is broader
your stride
remarkably colder
it’s the closing of curtains
before it gets dark
hesitant sips of air
before responding
your windows seem smaller
it’s the way you lick your lips
or bat your eye
after I something I’ve said
or when I draw closer
your arms just fumble
around me
it’s the folding of napkins
and the reorganization of space
it’s when you start talking over me
or not talking at all
or fail to tie packages
or bed your indifference.

God

Id like to believe
this world exists beyond us
despite us
this weight was prepackaged
the delivery was not surprising
between our separation 
and halfhearted gestures

I’d like to believe
that despite its lacklustre moments
and hard-nosed accusations
that it’s not the end

Its just simple justice
people die trying
that sometimes never come up for air

Its what makes us better 
more humble
worth fighting for
something fantastic
more than we were yesterday

I’d like to believe
that before our second wind
that there was a first breath
there were strings
validating our emotions
allowing us to be
as we are

fallible
but beautiful
and made
to discover
and to let go
and to live outside ourselves
whenever we deemed beyond possible
possible

Fall

raking the brown together
pulling the orange into a perfect hump
the occasional red
scraping together the bits and pieces
the paint box of peeled split crayons
discarded on the lawn
trying to assemble something
I can draw together
and scoop up with two hands
to clutch onto
to sink my nose into
to breath
if only for a little while
before it dwindles through my fingertips
and life tosses its perfect mound
to the air
tilts back its mouth
and sighs heavily
into the wind.

I don't write when I dont mean it

I don't call it when I don't see it
I don't wear tight pants because they are comfortable
or laugh when there's no reason to
I don't go out on a limb when I do not believe
there is a stem worth wrestling
Its not everyday
that I check myself twice before leaping
not everyday
that I spend a bit too long in front of a mirror
wondering if my wrinkles have grown too deep
or my eyes have been ripped too far open
I don't hastily dream
Or deal my cards on the table
just cause
I don't apologize freely
Its not everyday
that I plea with the gods
to make this a time worth living for
I'm deliberate when I choose to be
and I choose to be here
for this
for something
worth more than magnificent
worth more than possible
worth more than the seams that bind me
I don't climb walls unwillingly
publish myself
without intent
I don't fall asleep causally
or wreck houses unknowingly
I mean to intrude on your will
and to long for something real
I do not stand where I do not intend to
or hope for things
I do not plan on becoming. 

You are the best thing that has happened to me

because now I'm pissed and writing again.

I'm not censoring myself
because when I'm alone
there's no one left to appease

tip me over
and pour me out
in a way that smells of roses
and leaves a dark charge boiling in my stomach

I can open the floodgates
and let the volcano spout
send flames higher
than the sail I flew for you

I can stab the mask
and drag its insides down the wall
my bloody fingertips
are laughing at your universe
cause I don't have to make this palatable
or pretty for you anymore

I don't have to pretend that I am a soft, delicate creature
with kind words
to soothe your impenetrable soul

I'm just raw
and impetuous
an unapologetic killer
of perceptions
of false pretenses
of lies. 

direct flight backwards

ten years ago
when you picked out a house
for our future

when i was too distracted
to notice
you meant it

that house
is looking perfect
for us now
and the five children
you envisioned
rolling around on the lawn
with no shoes

children should never be in shoes
you said
they should never care about clothes
or drinking lemonade at midnight
or going inside just because I said so
I dismissed your romanticism
but I finally agree
this is true

that we should rest at the end of every evening
together
with a drink in our hands
and casual conversations
wrap our fingers around
napkins that match the new couch
your mother bought us
we should marry

plant a garden
replace the lights
take turns with the trash
watch our kids catch fireflies
and discuss
changes in our neighborhood
from our front porch swing
let our skin grow old together

I have since tossed and turned
in the sheets
staring at the ceiling
at all hours of the night
picturing the Sunday
you picked out the house
I wasn't brave enough
to step into
and longingly desperately now
to assure you
that i am ready to inhabit it. 

I find everything depressing

most especially
happy endings

I do not weep for the characters
who stand on the brink
of irreversible and ugly truths
what a cruel fate
the universe returns

when i was a child
I stopped believing
in fairy tales
I squeezed rotten fruit
from my pen
until it hung
like molasses
and plunged to its death
taking the sidewalk and every loving thought
with it

the way words
come undone
is easier than teaching them to fly
when all we have left is a photograph
one miserable longing

one everlasting conversation
with defeat.

Exclamation Point

I explode the stars

that form symphonies

I am the one
that catapults red thoughts into space

to bounce up
to bounce down
to bounce up again

to break the ceiling tiles

with a hammer

shatter glass houses
with a single swoop

I am

a thunderous bird

through the universe

on wings

that hold
the most passionate conversation that’s ever been heard

an unapologetic soliloquy

or an uninvited guest

when one carries a question mark

meant to explode

helium is released to the sky

filling balloons
never meant to return to earth

with such forces
never intended to meet their creator.