Wept

As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace – but now it is hidden from your eyes.”   Luke 19:41-42

I do not weep for the truth,

I weep because of the truth;

I weep for the futility,

I weep for the loss,

I weep for the waste,

I weep for the hopelessness;

I weep for the children,

I weep for the tragedy,

I weep for the sorrow,

I weep for the suffering;

I weep for the inevitability.

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Through it All

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.”   John 14:6-7

I have been on both sides of the fence,

I have been everywhere in-between;

physically,

emotionally,

spiritually,

financially;

I have worked for hundreds

of thousands of dollars,

I have worked for minimum wage,

I have tasted a life of privilege,

I have known the hopelessness

of poverty;

I have witnessed first hand,

the devastation of losing

everything;

I have worked at a desk,

using only my mind and fingers,

I have worked back-breaking jobs

that no one should have to do;

I have seen people at their best,

I have seen people at their worst;

I have entered dark places from

which very few survive,

I have stood on the edge

as the god of this world

quietly whispered in my ear

to take just one more step;

I have seen demons,

dark and evil,

drive past in a car,

as I rode a bike

down the road;

laughing,

mocking;

I have talked with an angel,

her name was Vena,

she held my hand,

as I lay in a hospital bed

having a heart attack;

I have seen people destroyed

by the very things from which

I was saved;

through it all,

You have been there

for as long as I can

remember,

quietly watching,

softly calling,

patiently waiting,

through it all You have

lifted me up when I could not

stand on my own,

saving me when no one

else could,

protecting me when no one

else would,

through it all You have

given me an education

that no college could provide,

no amount of money

could buy,

teaching me humility

and compassion,

helping me to stand,

allowing me to fall,

showing me the illusion

surrounding this world,

the lies that trap so many

who do not even know

they are trapped;

no one makes it out of this life

without You,

no one comes to the Father

but though You.

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freedom

He left us on a warm, autumn day, just walked away from life like a man on a long journey home. What is my life? What is any man’s life? Flesh and blood, disappearing vapor; here today, gone tomorrow.

there is a toxicity in the air,

a shallow kind of pall,

a quiet mushrooming hush,

as the clouds wait in witness;

I’ve started losing track of the days,

words no longer have meaning,

people and places become a blur,

my life fades like the night;

through it all You remain;

the myths are stripped away,

the moments silently await,

little boys stare at fastballs

floating lazily down the middle

of the plate,

the promise looms on the

distant horizon,

like some giant football scoreboard,

70 yards of open field

lies just ahead;

You were there in the beginning,

You are there in the end;

through it all You remain;

the edge does not hold the fear

it once did,

the darkness but a whisper,

the distance lessens,

as You become one step

closer;

just one beat;

just one breath;

freedom;

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Up Here

up here,

all your wealth and prestige

don’t mean a thing,

all your well-tanned, good looks,

all your Armani suits and

Rolex watches,

Rolls Royce’s and BMW’s,

all your witty, funny stories,

all your holier than thou piety,

all your false humility

and self-serving righteousness;

mean nothing at all;

up here there is no right,

no wrong,

no innocence,

no guilt,

no judgment,

no blame,

up here it is do or die,

fight or flight,

kill or be killed,

up here dead men

tell tall tales,

up here bullshit walks,

and survival talks;

I have been to this edge,

I have seen the emptiness below,

I have gazed into the darkness beyond,

through it all You were there,

through it all You were by my side;

up here,

there is nothing

without You.

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Part of the Cost

southern boys like their trucks,

clean and sweet,

moaning and groaning,

like fresh young virgins

on warm Saturday nights,

dreamers dream,

lovers love,

sleepers sleep,

inside we all silently weep;

part of the cost,

part of the loss;

kingdoms crumble,

melting like sand castles

beneath mighty ocean waves,

crashing violently upon

white sugary beaches,

stranding aqua blue jelly fish

for all eternity;

part of the cost,

part of the loss;

haughty, petulant children,

searching in vain

for honor and truth,

hidden among ruins and

ancient halls of perfect darkness,

never finding,

never knowing,

never understanding;

part of the cost,

part of the loss;

so many memories,

so much lost

along the way,

hanging on,

holding on,

with everything we have,

but in the end

they fade away,

like the early morning mist

before the

noon day sun,

and all that is left,

are echoes,

silently bouncing

off empty,

forgotten, walls,

there is no hiding

in this solitary world

called life,

no sanctuary,

no turning back;

part of the cost,

part of the loss;

through it all,

You continue to look down,

through it all,

You stand by my side,

You are the beginning,

You are the end,

You are all there is,

do not leave me here Lord,

do not forsake me,

hear my plea,

forgive my transgressions,

deliver me from evil ways;

bring me home to You.

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Muse

I had a muse once;

she was my inspiration,

she was my balance,

she was my addiction;

not many can understand

a relationship such as this,

it is far more complicated

than it appears,

much deeper than meets

the eye;

everyday I would delve

into bold, new worlds,

forbidden territories,

outlawed loves,

lost and forgotten lives,

each more fantastic than

the other,

each more twisted

than the next,

strangers meeting on

foreign shores,

whispered rumors,

destinations very few

can fathom,

laying them at her feet,

an offering of darkness

upon an altar of suffering

and sacrifice,

living for her approval,

bathing in her radiance,

hanging on her every breath;

she owned every fiber

of my existence;

she was kind,

she could have drained me

of every drop,

leaving nothing behind,

she could have destroyed me;

she released me instead;

sometimes I miss my muse,

the words came much easier

with her than without,

but I became stronger

as a result;

so I think perhaps

that it is better this way.

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It Is What It Is

it’s all fantasy and bullshit,

it’s all hypocrisy and lies,

it’s all vanity and puffed up pride,

it’s all just cheap, innocent illusion,

it is what it is;

strip away the greed,

remove the lust,

wipe off the impermeable filth,

reach out just once before

it is too late,

it is what it is;

past the point of no return,

no more free passes,

no more worn out excuses,

no more finger pointing,

no more hiding under the table,

it is what it is;

you gave it your best shot,

you gave it all you had,

but it was never close,

it was never quite enough,

it never had a chance;

it is what it is;

words dance and spin,

heaving and pulsating,

gyrating and undulating,

titillating like some

coked up stripper,

full of fanciful, fanatical

flesh driven dreams,

waiting to explode onto

forgotten, feverish faces

for the cost of one thin

dollar bill,

filling and stuffing,

until there is room for no more,

gagging and sagging,

choking and smoking,

one-way, back-street alleys,

death without dying,

honor without honor;

it is what it is;

this body fades into the mist,

alone and insecure,

never to rise,

never to return;

in the morning darkness,

I reach for Your precious hand,

from heights of places unknown,

You take hold,

pulling me from the pits below,

restoring me once again,

forgiving me,

loving me,

healing me;

You are all there is.

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Martin Luther King day?

Martin Luther King day?

he brought sanity

to an insane world,

created calmness

out of chaos,

peace,

to a battlefield,

forgiveness,

where none was deserved,

light,

to a land grown black

by internal darkness;

so;

Martin Luther King day?

I would certainly think so.

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Oh Poet

innocent blood,

running softly across the ground,

pouring out the sad sweetness

which makes you all

that you are;

the cell grows smaller,

the chains pull tighter,

solitary,

it is all you deserve,

in the end,

everything that was asked for,

became reality,

only distant memories left;

the ultimate denial,

the absolute illusion,

the final humiliation;

let it flow,

feel its simplistic texture,

round and rough,

bubbling up like some

forgotten brew,

bitter with vile,

forsaken by death,

floating in timeless gel;

I don’t know,

if I can ever return,

to this place

called home,

in this land of love,

it all comes out wrong,

it all seems so ridiculous,

like it never really was;

oh poet,

deny thy craft,

speak not,

lest someone hears

your voice.

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regrets

I try to sleep,

but cannot,

I think of you,

I think of your strength,

I think of your big city

toughness,

and I only love you

more;

I think of a moment,

when I held you in my arms,

your arms around my waist,

telling you what a strong little

shit you are,

your laughter,

looking down into your eyes,

how I should have kissed you

right then and there,

told you I loved you,

carried you into bed,

made you mine,

but did not;

it is the biggest regret

of my life;

later,

feeling stronger,

I come to the painful

realization,

that holding on to

memories, and things

I will never control,

is doing neither you,

nor I,

any good;

life goes on,

it always has,

it always will;

I have to let go;

once again,

I hold on to the one

who has carried me

through, time after time,

more than she will ever know,

more than she ever should know,

she deserves better,

but this is the best I can do,

she has known enough pain

for one lifetime,

unable to grow,

forever trapped in time,

by the monster who stole

so much,

holding on to her naivety;

I will protect her with my last

breath, even if I must protect her from

myself;

perhaps some things really are

better left unsaid,

but sometimes we say them

anyway;

and for this,

there are no regrets.

.

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The Trail

I come to you at last,

my secret refuge,

my final stand;

it is a journey I have

been making,

all my life;

you taste like chicken salad

sandwiches, and bottles

of Pepsi-Cola,

on the last day of school,

before summer break,

like hot, July mornings,

when your dad is taking vacation,

as your mother packs the cooler,

for trips to ‘Deer Forest’ or

‘Tower Hill’,

sampling her potato salad,

wanting more;

never enough,

never enough;

time is running out,

it is there in every step,

every whisper,

every breath,

but it is okay,

eventually, we all arrive at

this destination;

my spirit cries out,

just once more,

but the body says no,

never again,

so you travel in your mind,

in your thoughts,

you remember the view,

the touch,

the feel,

you remember the cool breeze

blowing on your face,

the crows cawing out,

the valley floor,

lying so far below,

the sun shining on your face;

you remember the quiet,

the solitude,

the peace;

you remember

the days gone by,

you see the road ahead,

with a sigh,

you start down the trail

leading home.

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Saturday Morning Biscuits

the day begins with biscuits,

sausage and egg,

bacon egg and cheese,

Saturday morning ritual,

part of the routine;

looking up,

the mountains call,

standing like ancient sentinels,

whispering like lovers,

in the fading, forgotten mist,

beckoning you to travel

their hidden trails,

a secret society,

a forbidden mystery,

but the growing pain

within your gut

says not today;

perhaps never again;

below, the James

gurgles and flows,

steady and rhythmic,

frogs creak,

daffodils bloom,

another spring awaits;

you think about

people and places

you have known,

you wonder within;

does a lifetime of

mediocrity,

lessen moments of greatness?

does not light shine

through the darkness, no matter

where or when it shines?

do careless words

speak forever?

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Bukowski poems about Jane

For Jane ©

225 days under grass

and you know more than I.

they have long taken your blood,

you are a dry stick in a basket.

is this how it works?

in this room

the hours of love

still make shadows.

when you left

you took almost

everything.

I kneel in the nights

before tigers

that will not let me be.

what you were

will not happen again.

the tigers have found me

and I do not care.

Barfly ©

Jane, who has been dead for 31 years,

never could have

imagined that I would write a screenplay of our drinking

days together

and

that it would be made into a movie

and

that a beautiful movie star would play her

part.

I can hear Jane now: “A beautiful movie star? Oh

for Christ’s sake!”

Jane, that’s show biz, so go back to sleep, dear, because

no matter how hard they tried they

just couldn't find anybody exactly like

you.

and neither can

I.

©Charles Bukowski

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The Last Song

lately, my writing has become a lot

like my lovemaking,

the desire is still there,

but the potency has long since gone,

I suppose the two go hand-in-hand,

there were many times when

words were just an extension

of certain body parts,

so perhaps there is some validity

to this observation,

now the question is;

can it be more?

and for this

I have no answer;

the fire is going out,

many areas of my life are dying,

some days I cannot even

remember the point,

and that is a very dangerous

place to be,

I am slowly being reduced

to one side of the fence

or the other,

no more in-between,

no more middle-of-the-road,

no more shades of gray,

no more lukewarm,

hot or cold,

black or white,

life or death;

life changing decisions,

require life changing choices;

there is much I could say to you,

but nothing can undo the hurt,

nothing can bring back the life,

nothing can make right

the wrong,

everything has come down

to this moment;

the last poem,

the last word,

the last song.

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Bad Asses

“I was glad I wasn't in love, that I wasn’t happy with the world. I like being at odds with everything. People in love often become edgy, dangerous. They lose their sense of perspective. They lose their sense of humor. They become nervous, psychotic bores. They even become killers.”  (Henry Chinaski) ‘Women’ –Charles Bukowski

“I’ve reached the point

where I want to throw out

all the shit, all the things

which aren't important,

I think for the first time

I want to try and

be happy” I told her;

she held my hand;

“It’s much easier

to be miserable in life

than to be happy,

to be happy requires

an effort, it requires

hard work” she said,

“it requires that you

take a risk.”

and I knew she was right,

all the things she had

been through as a child,

had taught her this

better than I,

or any teacher

ever could;

there are enough

bad asses in the world,

enough cruelty and darkness;

I am tired of

trying to be one.

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nothing new

What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.   Ecclesiastes 1:9

you can run,

you can hide,

you can laugh,

you can cry,

you can scream,

you can shout,

you can create,

you can destroy,

you can change,

you can rearrange;

it does not matter;

you can improve,

you can impress,

you can rebel,

you can regress,

you can be proud,

you can be ashamed,

you can be everything,

you can be nothing;

it does not matter;

men fight wars,

men live,

men die,

men come,

men go,

only the ocean waves

remain the same,

the sun rises,

the sun sets;

there is nothing new

under the sun;

I have dreams,

I have hopes,

I have ideas,

I have thoughts,

hidden among the ripples,

flowing like tomorrow;

truth does not give up her secrets,

they lie hidden within the maize,

like dangerous old friends,

waiting to pounce from above,

death does not catch us unaware;

there is nothing new

under the sun.

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never was

out here, in this wasted space,

no one hears the silence,

no one knows the loss,

no one understands the loneliness,

alone and holding on,

waiting for imaginary rescues

amongst lost and broken places,

hiding behind enemy lines,

crawling on hands and knees

between burned out bunkers,

full of dry, empty words;

never quite reaching the mark;

old debts return,

tears rain down like

sweet summer sweat,

holding on until

there is nothing left;

without hope,

without chance;

beautiful dreams flow like a river,

on their way to imaginary seas,

dancing like butterflies

on the morning wind,

echoing sounds of magic

within the caverns of mindless souls;

one more time,

traveling down long and

lonesome roads,

searching for a home

inside lost and empty ruins,

running from fantasies

that never were,

living within upside down dreams

which come and go;

over before it began;

my eyes have seen what others

have not,

my heart has known that

which no heart should;

who sees these shadows,

who knows this hunger,

every word,

every thought,

every feeling;

inadequate;

the day is gone,

the night moves on,

the bags all packed,

waiting for the final call,

once you go through

that door,

there’s no going back,

no return,

no tomorrow,

no more;

sometimes the greatest love

is that which never was.

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Golden Years

it wasn't supposed to be

like this,

so empty and borderline,

so almost final,

full of unanswered questions and

unfulfilled promises;

long ago there was time,

endless and forever,

like stars in the eternal night,

now they fade,

as light from the new dawn

rises over the hills,

so remote and far away;

but somehow

we reached the golden years,

where everything is not too bad,

or not too good,

just somewhere in the middle,

just okay;

a very gentle and quiet place.

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Not Mine

“Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me.”   John 12:25-26

“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.”   John 15:18-19

This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.   John 3:19-21

When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him there, along with the criminals—one on his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they divided up his clothes by casting lots.   Luke 23:33-34

life is not fair;

the strong survive,

the weak perish,

the old dies out,

the new begins;

life goes on;

do not mistake humility

for weakness,

do not mistake silence

for ignorance,

I know far more

than you think I know,

I see things you cannot see,

I travel down roads

you never will;

this is your world,

not mine.

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Confessions of a Mad Poet

he writes so eloquently,

with all the proper provenance,

all the MFA’s and PhD’s;

yet reading his work

is like running on a treadmill,

no matter how much effort

you put into it;

you always end up

right where you began;

I suppose at one time it was different,

prior to the formal training

and academic nonsense,

with all its self-proclaimed knowledge

and airs of superiority,

I’m sure the words flowed naturally and free,

taking the reader on a journey

into never before seen,

far-away lands;

but then the education

got in the way;

I have tried all the natural highs,

all the mind expanding techniques,

all self-promoting exercises,

all the little tricks of the trade;

alcohol works the best;

sometimes I almost forget,

but then a song comes

on the radio,

an old video clip is played,

something is said,

like tiny bubbles

in a bubble machine

the memories begin to rise,

it all comes back;

the loneliness,

the isolation,

the sadness,

the darkness,

all night diners,

coffee and eggs

at 3 in the morning,

oncoming headlights,

the empty road,

the feeling of being unlike

everything and everyone,

the searching,

the attraction to

dark and mysterious things,

endless shots of whiskey,

never satisfied,

never enough,

always wanting more,

more, more,

standing at the edge of nothing,

peering into it’s oblivious perfection,

breathing deep

the intoxicating scent,

understanding the futility,

seeing through the myth,

fighting back the inevitable;

sometimes the strangeness

became overwhelming,

all the differences,

the inner silence,

the unspoken words,

it’s a miracle

I never became a serial killer,

a deranged lunatic,

hiding out in public places,

waiting for a single nod,

a lone wink,

singular acknowledgement;

silent peace;

sometimes I almost forget,

almost, but not quite,

it has never been about fortune

or fame,

not about store bought

hypocrisy or

witty, tongue twisting words,

riding on the coattails

of expensive, inconsequential degrees,

complete with lifetime supplies

of picture-perfect, post-card images,

Vermont farms,

summers on the Cape;

it was always so much more;

all I ever wanted was to know

somebody was listening,

someone saw through

the technical difficulties,

past the political correctness,

beyond incorrect commas

or questionable capitalization,

seeing something more than

paper and ink,

seeing the life

beating within the pages

of endless, mind-numbing sentences,

someone who grasped the treasure

buried beneath the trash,

all I ever wanted is the same thing

every mad, raving, delusional, twisted

self-pitying poet wants;

to be heard;

I gave them passion,

but they only wanted bullshit,

I gave them agony,

but they only wanted bullshit,

I gave them love,

I gave them hate,

I gave them darkness,

I gave them light;

but they only wanted bullshit;

bullshit,

bullshit,

bullshit,

words to soothe

their bullshit minds,

pictures to fill

their bullshit lives,

paper with which to wipe

their bullshit asses;

self-made bullshit titles,

hiding behind unknown

bullshit presses

ending in ‘ville’

or ‘stanley’,

new paradigms,

publishing for the masses;

bullshit,

bullshit,

bullshit;

we are hanging on,

everyone of us,

waiting for just the

right moment,

ready to leap

whenever the chance

presents itself;

we are all hanging on;

death is cruel,

but it brings

unexpected blessings,

when life no longer nourishes,

when words are not enough,

even non-educated fools

can understand the basics,

it does not require

above average intelligence,

it is not a learned affair;

it is something so much

more.

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so you want to be a writer (Charles Bukowski)

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.

unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

- Charles Bukowski.
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The Art of Making Love

early morning light,

remembering

making love to you,

everything

ceased to exist,

and for a moment,

life was only

a transition,

changing with each touch

of your tender lips;

I am told,

by those much wiser

than I,

that words must be

learned,

that to live,

you must study

someone else’s life,

if this is true,

then I suppose

you cannot make love,

without watching

xxx movies;

I say, make your

own words,

live your own life,

make love in your

own way,

then it will be your words,

it will be your life,

it will be your love;

not some teachers.

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somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond (by e. e. cummings)

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

e.e.cummings

Game Show Hosts

sometimes I think I am living life

one frame at a time,

and I wonder, how can I continue

to be functional?

when I have ceased to function,

is this reality?

or just a full length feature film,

waiting to begin;

weekdays off are the best,

when the kids are away at school

or work,

leaving the door open

for my wife and I

to violate all forms of

common decency;

and be very loud

about it;

later on,

watching the price is right,

I wonder, is Bob doing

the new girl?

he must be in incredible shape,

she would kill most men half his age,

but then game show hosts

aren't most men;

channel surfing,

I listen to the independent counsel

being described as either

the champion of justice or evil incarnate,

depending on who is doing the talking,

republican or democrat,

I flip back to the price is right,

game show hosts

are much more interesting.

.

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