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Reading Bukowski

It sucks reading Bukowski sober.
I mean... 'I guess I'll have to'...
Cuz,
I am sober. 
But how much better would this be, 
With a couple of Dad's horse pill Vicodin.
Chemical clouds of crystal synthetically fogging the room.
A shot of round whiskey- washed back by a Corona with a fresh lime off the tree in the backyard.  
All smoothed out by some of that California, recreational, above board-
Mar-i-juan-a. 
It's not called weed anymore!
It's "marijuana". 
And I'm not sneaking out of the house to drive mom and dad's passed down Ford station wagon to meet some guy in a truck that some guy at school knows who gave me his number and told me to meet him in this parking lot and to bring fifty bucks. 
For an eighth, 
An eighth of what? 
Don't worry about that,
Just bring fifty bucks. 
I get in his truck,
Or did he get in mom and dad's car?
It's been so long, I can't remember.
All I know is I gave him the money; 'we're on private property'. 
He…
Recent posts

Pink + Purple Hearts Club

We might as well live with our hearts on our sleeves. Our pink + purple hearts… Because we've been through the war. We were the ones pushed through the door, Held up in sacrifice, To tease, To shun, To fuddle. When all anyone young and growing wants, Is someone to cuddle; Someone to lie next to, Laughing so free. Made so complicated because His one, Is a He. And this! In the last page of this diary. You have to know I feel you as you walk through the door. Like, a tidal wave on dry land Salt jammed in a sore. Like lavender breeze You make me feel so fine. Like jazz to a poet You illuminate my mind. So, We might as well because, hell, What have we got to lose? We did all the drugs! We drank all the booze. We left each other and all the good ones to die. So I lay here silently laughing as you lie weeping on your side. I'm not a beautiful lover And can be so unkind It's the tragedy of this gay (That baffles your mind) So, We might as well love with our hearts on our sleeves… Lucky, Kiddo, You, and me.

Cornered Bird.

One morning the Little Bird awoke. Still, the trees. Still, the seed on the ground. But the sky- he noticed the sky… Felt, Different. Or maybe it was he, Who could see himself less clearly, In this patch of the Great Quilt. Where would he fly, If not here? That cloud, This bend of earth and wind, Seemed to outline him in a way that felt less like a hold, And more like a shove.
Could other birds see? Or was it just, he… To work! This is home. This is the place that… is… known. Then why? Does it seem to pull? This “sky”. Why, Am I so small, then yet, able to fly, If not to follow the sky?
He stood on the brim of his nest. The sun whispering over the edge of the world. The wind battering at his little bird heart. To write it all down. To jump, Soar, Start.

Sudan.

Sudan, the last male white rhino on the planet Earth has died.
His two female offspring are the last to survive.
His sturdy white Tufts,
And thick oceans of leathery skin,
Wore like that of a dino.
How could we not know,
Where this would go?
And even when we did.
Still more.
Never less.
We must improve, repeat, impress.
Be the best?
Sudan, may you rest.

En Development.

He does airports well. He stands with purpose and finality. His voice stretches because it has to. Like, his life depends on it. He talks to me. Just to me. Like, Lee Harvey Oswald must've felt. In that musical about Assassins. I could dance with him singing in front of me. To a simple empty chord being almost mindlessly vamped. ‘If we hadn't spent 10 years finding it.’ He does airports well. So the planes will fly. The passengers will sit. And the birds will continue to wonder what it is that invades their God given skies.

7even. (Making America Great Again.)

“There was once a nanny-goat who said,
In my cradle someone sang to me:
“A strong man is coming.
He will set you free!”
The ox looked at her askance.
Then turning to the pig
He said,
“That will be the butcher.”
Bertolt Brecht Brecht was a left-wing writer who had his work banned. 7 words. 7 deadly sins. Censorship. Making. America. Great... Again. Control. Distraction. Disregard. Elite. Rice. Porridge. Wine. Red meat. Many words have been said, Many wars have been won. To ignite the bomb,

Happy Holidays!!! From one human to another.

My friend Diane de Boer-Phelan posted this and I really needed to read it. And wanted to share it because I think it's really important. Please read and share:

"Tonight was extra cold. I walked by a guy on my way home who I noticed had been sitting there since 1pm. I felt his despondency. I walked another full block and a half saying things to myself like "he knows where to get help" "what if he's crazy" and "what if he thinks I'm hitting on him like the last guy I stopped and tried to help" "I'm beat, I need to get home"...
So many what if's crowded my mind and I just observed them and then saw myself turning around and walking towards him. His name was Mark, and when I asked him if I could buy him a coffee he looked amazed and relieved someone was talking to him. Turns out Mark is from Queens and lost his job when he had a seizure on the job. He wasn't crazy. In the least bit. And when I told him to pick out anythi…