more of this self-touch begins as thoughts of touching my girl than her requisite post-glow turn and stroke me back
i’ve bragged to earth’s ends bout being god’s greatest giver, ever
makeshift and wielding midas touch midst den full o’ boudoir selfie takers,
really, i’m just the dastard clown behind a magic wand
and sneaky fingers.
A compassionate conversation with excerpt from a version of, ‘the Crunch’ from life-long inspiration, Bukowski. Response written as if shared between us and the bottle. My part, intended as humble respect. For full poem, click here:
Too much too little or not enough
too fat too thin or nobody
laughter or tears or immaculate non-concern
and people are not good to each other
non-committal more than’s enough,
sucked out fat,
now too thin this ain’t no body,
few pure tears over concern
people are not good
to each other, or maybe good’s just a slow learn.
who’s looking for who? watching from same station bench as every you passes on through tunnel until hollowed out or seen by truth. We’ve all ducked our heads and sucked on lucky cigars while winds whistle in ears then on through window cracked but an inch in the same burned out car.
i know all the ways through stuck as fuck, don’t fuckin’ listen anyway-
and what’s with you?
sorrow glass case displays waved ‘bove my head for pride’s slaverin’ slaves-
just eve’s worst fear gorged worms. slickening the soil dustin’ moon’s white face
let’s help us see. disarm the weapons inside we
a hit of dopamine laced with grittiest of love, then flooded with life and gasoline,
in each heart compartment rests a loaded gun he’s grippin’ soft ’til the slipping off of his skin lined gloves,
and if his fingers ever taste bare metal,
you’ll find my face all twisted in with shrapnel of
all debts sun’s dust shall settle.
sleeping doll’s porcelain locks scrape ‘gainst loose teeth of my crippled comb,
first wave of brush catches a kink, and i lose salt and spray rubies down the drain of what sink
in whose home?
there’s a sinkhole in center stage where lights emerge thru layered frosts
s’ok, the plot was too heavy anyway,
so i overheard a troupe of out of work actors once say.
written for the girl who makes our house a home.
Illustration of the human heart. A medical diagram of the human heart showing the coronary arteries with text labels.
i’m sorry for each hair-triggered time i told another spy or soldier where to aim and shoot
as though i’d committed each finer detail of layout’s blueprints to this sketchy memory-
of life designed by and that blooms only in you,
i’ve been relieved my command over anything, says glass and its sifting sugar sands
just happy over moons to be a mood lighting her little room.
i’ve always love loved that california sun chowder served up sizzlin’ fits in summer pan,
oh peter, peter, pie faced rat deceiver
did you dare love the girl or did your neverland just leave her
starin’ empty into telescope’s glass eye making stars shiver like lonely birds.
curled into groove of curb is an old gym shoe,
wonder who’s walks and faiths wiggled their pigs into you,
and how hard the heavy work hurt, and whether day’s weather makes your week smell much worse,
and if the shoe even fit foot or mostly it hurt.