After the Burn

Bukowski met a Dutchman
at a Philly bar in the 40’s.
The seventy-something sat
with a straight, broad back
and cracked three raw eggs
into each pint he drank.

Bukowski, a frail, twenty-something
virgin, felt afraid in the Dutchman’s
presence, this seventy-something,
still strong, a working man,
a dying breed, although immortal
now, thanks to the sickly little
man with a funny name. The difference
between each like that of starvation
and anorexia, one true, the other contrived.

It don’t matter
what it is,
whether fear or desire,
or absence,
as long as it’s real,
the flame that is.


If I Had a Gun

the exit sign has been lit in vain for decades

a founding father has finally been forgotten

scream into the pitch black

a feminist obsessed with Bukowski

an insect on the wall passing up morsels

holding out for a feast

angst and sex on a day of rest

she cannot see the forest for the trees

laws know not necessity, breaking blood and bread

her thoughts are an endangered Bengal

these words are final and accustomed to failure

as we are certain of our graves


Rotting in a Bucket

Perhaps this nature is forced

upon ourselves.

Fantasy and reality collide.

A single idea indoctrinated by a certain privileged minority

cannot forever decide the fate, in a figurative sort of way, of our species.

There are (in secret) and will be a plethora of schisms in our general biological construct.

Unveiling to others the frail truth.


The naked boy is no longer green but faded black.

Why are statues of humans more beautiful than their creators?

All the cobblestones you’ve seen in this city

have been contemplated as weapons.

Paris no longer has the cramped streets fit for revolution.

No more gates, the city walls are only the limit of electronic dissonance used against us.

Hold us back, keep us in poverty.

Recurring thoughts have been warm. Survival is all that is left.