Sandcreek

Sand Creek;

the truth dances like a ghost,

a mighty wind whispering

through the silence of the night;

who will hear the voices?

who will right the wrong?

it is hard to love when so much injustice abounds,

hard to forgive when innocent blood

runs across stolen ground,

dirty little secrets hidden in time,

deep dark memories of which no one speaks;

you can never escape the past,

it follows you like a shadow,

softly surrounding you like a glove,

slowly blending into who you are,

silently determining what you become;

all the treachery and cowardice revealed,

the self-made bravado and false heroics

silently exposed,

sons of murderers,

daughters of liars and thieves,

descendants of swine,

a little lower than dogs,

somewhat less than human;

without honor,

without dignity,

without hope;

their homes built upon hypocrisy and greed,

their tongues filled with misconceptions and lies,

their legacy stands like a wavering deck of cards,

waiting to crash down upon their guilt-ridden heads;

Sand Creek remembers.

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Floodwaters

The world is dying,

I am dying,

death has become my only friend,

the final sanctuary,

in a life no longer

worth living.

Each day begins anew,

each day ends,

the breeze continues to blow,

the rivers continue to flow,

the morning sun arrives

right on time;

for every season there is a purpose,

for every question there is an answer.

I see the ugliness lying

just below the surface,

the self-serving hypocrisy,

the incomplete falsehoods,

the insincere agendas,

they do not fool me;

not even for a moment.

This time begins at last,

the hour at hand,

the children of men are no more,

their monuments of glory

crumble before the wind,

the bitter taste of their demise

lies frozen upon a sea

of silent tongues;

this then is the beginning,

this then is the end.

Still they do not listen,

even now their eyes remain blind,

giving in marriage and celebrating

right up to the very end;

surely there is no hope

for ones such as these.

a chip off the old block

He was not my father,

but he should have been;

he was the one who showed me

that words don’t have to be flowery and sweet,

that sometimes they can be rough and real,

that rules can be broken,

that life sucks and it’s ok to talk about it,

that shit happens and sometimes

there’s not a damn thing you can do about it,

that dreams die

but you keep on living,

that friends come and go,

but a good shot of whiskey

will never let you down,

that dogs may be loyal

but women are really man’s best friend,

that you can sit on your ass all day

waiting for the end to come,

or you can run headlong to meet it,

sticking up your middle finger and

screaming profanities at the top of your lungs

the whole way;

that you can write poetry and

still be a man.

Yeah he wasn’t my father,

but he taught me all the things

that a father should teach a son

so sometimes I feel like maybe he was,

and deep down inside I know

that every word I write is done

seeking his approval;

I only hope that someday

I can become as big a bastard

as he was;

a chip off the old block;

thanks dad.

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the girls we followed home - Charles Bukowski

the girls we once followed home are
now the bag ladies,
or one of them is that white-haired
old crone who
whacked you with her
cane.
the girls we once followed home
sit on bedpans in nursing
homes,
play shuffleboard at the public
park.
they no longer dive into the
white-capped waves,
those girls we followed home,
no longer rub their bodies with oil
under the sun,
no longer primp before the
beautiful mirror,
those girls we followed home,
those girls we followed home
have gone somewhere,
some forever,
and we who followed them?
dead in wars,dead of heart
attack,
dead of yearning,
thick of shoe and slow of
speech,
our dreams are tv dreams,
the few of us,
so few of us remember
the girls we followed home.
when the sun always seemed to
be shining.
when life moved so new and
strange and wonderful
in
bright dresses.

I remember.

- Charles 'Hank' Bukowski

my dreams are suffering and sorrow

my dreams are suffering and sorrow,

struggle and pain,

heartache and helplessness,

empty cauldrons;

just on the edge of madness.

waking in the middle of the night,

wasted and worn,

a burned out shell,

remembering a life

that never began,

living a death for which

there is no end,

surrounded by faceless names

without hope;

my dreams are suffering and sorrow.

broken,

all typed out,

upside down,

inside out,

slapped silly,

smacked senseless,

washed up and

left for dead,

broken;

when you’re in love,

they are in every face,

every smile

every word;

some things are better

left unsaid.

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Keep Your Love Alive (Thanks Anne Wilson)

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” – Dante Alighieri - Inferno (Divine Comedy)

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.  I Corinthians 13:8-13

the end approaches,

shadows grow,

darkness builds,

prison bars disappear,

all the self-imposed chains

fall away,

no more limits,

no more boundaries;

no more fear.

words have no worth here,

possessions even less,

all that you think and feel;

unknown,

unimportant,

unimpressive,

unreal,
beyond physicality,

beyond sadness,

beyond joy,

beyond knowing,

beyond wondering;

beyond caring.

only one thing remains,

one thing amidst all the

desires and lusts,

the endless worries,

the doubts and concerns,

the empty, useless emotions,

the greed and envy,

the only thing that ever

mattered all along;

hold on to it with every

ounce of strength that

you possess.

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betting on the muse - Charles Bukowski

Hank, you were the greatest

betting on the muse

Jimmy Foxx died an alcoholic

in a skidrow hotel

room.

Beau Jack ended up shining

shoes,

just where he

began.

there are dozens, hundreds

more, maybe

thousands more.

being an athlete grown old

is one of the cruelest of

fates,

to be replaced by others,

to no longer hear the

cheers and the

plaudits,

to no longer be

recognized,

just to be an old man

like other old

men.

to almost not believe it

yourself,

to check the scrapbook

with the yellowing

pages.

there you are,

smiling;

there you are,

victorious;

there you are,

young.

the crowd has other

heroes,

the crowd never dies,

never grows old

but the crowd often

forgets.

now the telephone

doesn’t ring,

the young girls are

gone,

the party is

over.

this is why I chose

to be a

writer.

if you’re worth just

half-a –damn

you can keep your

hustle going

until the last minute

of the last

day.

you can keep

getting better instead

of worse,

you can still keep

hitting them over the

wall.

through darkness, war,

good and bad

luck

you keep it going,

hitting them out,

the flashing lightning

of the

word,

beating life at life,

and death too late to

truly win

against

you.

- Charles Bukowski (Hank)

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