Dear Mr. Chinaski

You lied to me,
Bukowski.

Or Chinaski

Maybe that's the guy.

Either way,
there are no women
and there is no booze.

Post Office
lied to me,
and
Women
did too.

I sifted through the Madness
and the
Way
is not there.

Alabama!
There is no horse track
and you said
dogracing
is-
well, I don't remember what
you said
but
you didn't like it.

There is no Santa Monica Beach
nor is there any
Air-condition-less
windows.
No Santa Ana winds.
No
women in short skirts.

Late night
runs to a
liquor store
just to borrow
wine?
I hate wine.

Chuck, man.

There is no wine.

However, I think
you'd appreciate
how long
and how much
your poetry
has helped
moved along
my bowels
in the morning.

Bukowski, you
fuckin' liar.

A Spider Thread

Once
The Buddha
awakened
to a man
hidden and defiled
in the depths of
the Sixth Realm, in
Hell.

He squirmed
and was tortured.
An arsonist and a
thief, he was in the company
of others like him.

The Buddha
awakened to a moment
in the Thief's life
when the man almost
squashed a spider
upon seeing it,
but spared the Spider's life
because it was
like his own.

The Buddha knowing this, he
lowered a spider thread
down into
the Depths of Hell
and the Thief found it.

He found it strong enough
to hold his weight, and
he even found himself
able enough
to begin to pull
and climb
his way out from the depths.

As the Thief began to
glimpse the Buddha Above
he turned and looked down
and saw many others
climbing the thread out of hell.

The Thief shouted
"NO! This is MY thread!"

And it snapped
and he plummeted
back
into Hell.

How Cold Can the Day Get?

How harsh can the wind blow?

If one
is helpless
on the ground
how many times
can he be kicked?

Booze bludgeons worries
and pain, only to
have pain
wake up, take a piss on you,
and fight your brother.

Fuck.
Just a few pumps,
to kill
a
few aches
and
make a few
more.

Cigarettes again,
to burn holes
in time alone
and good clothes
too.

How hard can
they make it
to even get
anywhere
and
who the fuck is
"they"?

A lot of my poems
were
are
written
drunk, stoned
sad, elated
fated, free
organic, synthetic
back to the wind,
or facing the east.

A lot of my poems
have been written
in ink, in pencil
in anger
in vain
for love
by myself
after Humanity's face
scowled at me
and frowned too.

I fear
every morning.

I write enough about it,
and no one reads.

A voice in the wilderness
yells for another
and hears
only the wind in the trees
and the cries
of a buzzard.

Fearsome Furrows

On my forehead,
an angry, yet sad expression
of wrinkles on
the bare patch of skull
above my angled brows.

It's hard to think about what you
want
when you can't
have
it.

My sandcastle glistens white
clean sand of fine grit
wet to mud and plastered
to walls and parapets.
But as the sun's countenance hides
itself under blanket of dark
the cool water moves in
and floods the Royal Chambers.

This is Impermanence
The source of suffering is want
To remove want
is to remove suffering.
even wants are impermanent.

The most
beautiful
face
furrows
and
wrinkles
and
dies.

And it is beautiful all the while.

A Ghost in the Hills, and Fog on an Open Road.

Hainted
Cotton gins
echo
wing beats
of martin birds
and bats
borrowing time
from tomorrow's
dawn.
In the cool
night
warehouse dark
mice
move up and down,
suicide runs,
squeaking like
the tennis shoes
on waxed wood.

In the distance,
resounding around
the bend of the
creek bed
and the snow-white
silver limestone walls,
a shotgun blast
is muffled
down to a small
low rumble,
belying the destructive
flash that was the
last thing
one coyote ever
saw.

The Hickory nuts
land with a "thud"
all hours of the
night, while their branches
crack and snap
loudly in the
midnight wind.
Hoodoo hexes
scratched into
birch bark telling
secrets
to the needles and leaves.

Hoodlums
hold open a
concrete crypt
to smash the innards
like so many pumpkins,
and sacrificed
cats,
their entrails
scattered about
the grass
or the brick wall
or maybe asphalt
county lines.

All the Saints
come out to wail
and faces paint
their flickering smiles
all over the dark.

And What Have I Become to You?

I have
come
to be the
gambler
and the thief;
gambling at
tomorrow
and stealing all
my yesterdays.
I have
come
to be a
liar
and a prophet;
delivering
all the news
that never
was.
I have
come
to be the
sick
and the
poor;
licking up
the tonic water
for the drink
and the quinine.
I have
come
to be
the pusher
and the
priest; selling
just to buy
a way to
heaven.
I have
come
to be
the dog and
the horse;
nipping at my
own heels
to pull.
The more
I run
the
faster I die
and
the darker
the day
the brighter
the moon.
I have
come to
be the
gambler
and the
thief;
losing all my yesterdays
at a crooked game of
tomorrow.

2500 give or take (Another Question)

If someone looks out
across the straits of Sicily
To the Island itself
Do they see the
ocean
between?
Or the sweet
sands on shore?

What if it were the
expanse of our
ancestors?
The thousands of
miles of
undulating grass
and massive waves?
Would we
still see
a home away from
nowhere?
Or would the
ocean of dirt
and sand
and dead leaves
keep us ashore
on the Island of the
Known and Familiar?