now I know

now I know,

why junkies stick needles

in their arms

and lie dying

in back street alleys;

now I know,

why death comes

before the body

actually dies;

now I know

what Christ felt;

now I know,

where people go

when there is

nothing left;

now I know,

just how black

the darkness of the night

can be;

now I know,

just how deep

the bottom

really is;

now I know,

and the needle,

and the powder,

and the shots of whiskey,

and death,

only make it

legitimate;

now I know,

and have lived

to tell about it.

.

.

Workshop

I thought about writing again,

but then I got a stomachache,

so I thought to hell with it;

besides,

what would it prove?

I really don’t care

to be psycho analyzed

by some middle-aged, mildly attractive,

poet wannabe named Diane,

searching for meaning in a poem

about women at the DMV,

scrutinizing every line to find political

and technical correctness,

I would buy her a drink however;

if I thought there wouldn't be a test

afterwards;

it is rather amusing though,

to find out that there really are

people out there attempting to learn

how to write this bullshit,

it makes me wonder if it’s poetry

they’re trying to master;

or life;

because I never saw any difference

between the two.

.

.

A Day At The DMV

I like strong and

confident women,

with deep lusty voices

who call me hon,

you usually find them

at service counters,

they always seem to know

the answers to everything,

I often wonder why

they’re not running

a company somewhere,

or deciding the fate

of third world countries,

I’m sure they’d do a much better job

than the yahoos doing

those kind of things now,

but I guess it’s just as well,

if they were tied up

solving all the world’s problems,

it would take forever

to renew my license

at the DMV

.

.

Mammalian Junkyard

human wreckage,

lying strewn about like

old lost parts,

buried within this

mammalian junkyard;

who could know,

who would care;

waiting for a small glimpse of light

at the end of this proverbial tunnel,

they come by the thousands,

the millions,

for just a touch,

a look from their

multi-colored gods,

a souvenir to drag back

into the pits of this life

called home,

a chance to feel,

a chance to forget;

before the wrecking ball

smashes them

into pieces.

.

.

Mind Games

so there I was,

finger fucking with one hand,

and reading Bukowski

with the other,

what a combination,

it almost seemed natural,

like cookies and milk or,

bacon and eggs;

somewhere,

I swear the old bastard was

actually smiling,

damn proud that his work

was the inspiration for a

good finger fuck;

I know I would be;

I’d take a good finger fuck

over a bad mind fuck

any day;

she made me put the book down

when she mounted me,

I suppose there are some things

which just can’t be shared

.

.

Boundaries

call out my name,

across the dark forlorn waters

of this raging swamp,

and I will hear,

I will come;

we are all terminally ill

in this terminal world,

waiting for a cure

which will never come;

but still we wait

just the same;

time makes everything

temporary,

everything obsolete,

in their well defined universe

they lie trapped,

by limits and invisible boundaries

they can never cross,

outside the storm rages on,

outside children die

slow lonely deaths,

while inside

it is business as usual.

.

.

Finally

journeys made,

years spent searching

for answers which never came,

a place to call home

that was here all along;

for the first time I see

your face,

for the first time I realize

how much I need you,

for the first time I feel the storm

dying inside,

the darkness gives way

to bright sunshine,

the rage turns to calm;

making love,

you take me places

to which I have never been,

your touch is like a warm

old friend,

calling me back

again and again;

you have made me

the best I will ever be,

you have taken me

to the highest peaks

I will ever climb;

now I can see,

now I can breathe,

now I can love.

.

.