for all the misfits & the misanthropes, the great-mistake-makers, the second- (or-tenth-or-last-)chance-takers, the late bloomers & the revolutionaries, for the bartenders & the barflies, for the good guys who never finish, for the addicts & the survivors of all the violences of this gorging, greedy, gluttonous world, for the childless mothers & the orphans of all … Continue reading bukowski said it was a circus
we don't achieve open-mouthed kisses much these days; your teeth need skin to leave their deep impressions -- I comply with flesh of thigh & shouldered tendons & a tongue that's always been too uncomfortable with its own softness to offer itself anyway -- -- I wouldn't know what to make of us on paper … Continue reading No Expectations
Each morning, you ask, "How did you sleep?" Each morning, I have given you, "Fine." But what I've really meant to say, in all these years of days was: best while you were cocooned around me . . . but mostly restlessly, through fret & far-off dreams that fell away to fuzzy shadowed puzzle pieces come … Continue reading I Have Not Slept Well (a poem)
It is impossible to write poetry after you've spent the morning drinking over-compensated, half-decaffeinated coffee & held in your breath for three Bukowski poems in succession; even when the air & your lungs are sticky-thick with prose & Cannabis and your disconnected fingers scratch all the falling words onto Post-It-Notes -- (You know … Continue reading When You Mean to Write a Poem
Apis Mellifera -- grafted during the first instar, the bee queen emerges from her piping season, seizing back her marking pen . . . . . . then October, 1962 -- she marks 25 commemorations. Sovereign to the worms & the dirt ever before the flowers -- the (falling) matriarch pledges her fertility -- the … Continue reading Legend of the Bee Queen
I wouldn't say that I am manic -- that word implies insane happiness? surely giddiness? the same, they are strangers to me mostly, madness is not the problem with my creativity is suffering my depression as well as it can. And it can, and it can. Can I write you a prescription? It will cure … Continue reading Curing Madness
Until you so loosened me with insignificance, then with the half-moon of stars dangling, barely daring to glimmer about my neck; about to fall madly, again closed those blue, blue darkroom hands with your inked veins, pulsing about my neck; You kept me throat-tight in silence for years. I won't wear any necklaces now. -B.