i have a stack of old
bukowski books
from when i was in my twenties
and living in the city and new york
taking up residence on my book shelf.
they’re weather worn
and pock-marked,
moldy
like the ole bum himself.
we used to read the poems
to each other
alone and together
like a litany of holy books
late into the nights
as the candles burned,
the bottles drained
and the flowers stayed dead
in the sticking vase.
i flip through them
now,
sniffing for inspiration—
stanzas circled and starred
the dog-eared pages
like dull mirrors
reveal nothing new.
we did not read women then,
we did not know women then,
not in ways they might have taught us
how to be better men.
Showing posts with label Bukowski. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bukowski. Show all posts
February 23, 2021
54/365
January 3, 2018
hold my breath
It was just the three of us tonight
the family unit deconstructed by a sleep over,
the new dynamic, unleashing the spirit of littlest
which reminded us of her evolving personality
as if, one by one, the jokes she giggled to
fed the ball of energy inside her heart
like a fully formed gift
dreamed to life years ago.
She’s a sleep now, or at least in her bed on her way,
and I am keeping a promise to poetry.
I’ve forgotten how time consuming
it can be carrying these words close enough for you
to touch, and rub between your fingers like
old worn pages.
In preparation for writing, I’ve set the table with the following:
a chilled glass of Moscato-
the sweet orange fragrance rests on my tongue;
licking the sticky remnants from my moustache makes me feel
like an evolved primate with access to magic.
three books for inspiration randomly collected from my library-
“Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.”
the line highlighted in fading green,
the pages dark and yellowed by time
and exposure and neglect.
In what moment of bliss or madness
did Fitzgerald uncover that gem?
“Hell is being scared of things.”
the Robbins novel is a window to the past,
long afternoons on the mattress on the cement floor,
as the termites ate the house down.
We were so eager to carve out a spirituality
“I used to hold my breath waiting for euphoria.”
an old Bukowski book with my scribbles in it
stares at me like a stow away on a time machine.
A lifetime is too long to be forced into one reflection.
We do not change enough to bare the boredom of selves.
I have forgotten all the things I’ve wanted to be.
What have I accomplished tonight?
Another navel gazing poem that helped pass the hour.
Better than slowly disappearing, I suppose.
Better than following snarky tweets about dementia in power.
Any time spent poking at the center
has to mean something.
the family unit deconstructed by a sleep over,
the new dynamic, unleashing the spirit of littlest
which reminded us of her evolving personality
as if, one by one, the jokes she giggled to
fed the ball of energy inside her heart
like a fully formed gift
dreamed to life years ago.
She’s a sleep now, or at least in her bed on her way,
and I am keeping a promise to poetry.
I’ve forgotten how time consuming
it can be carrying these words close enough for you
to touch, and rub between your fingers like
old worn pages.
In preparation for writing, I’ve set the table with the following:
a chilled glass of Moscato-
the sweet orange fragrance rests on my tongue;
licking the sticky remnants from my moustache makes me feel
like an evolved primate with access to magic.
three books for inspiration randomly collected from my library-
“Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.”
the line highlighted in fading green,
the pages dark and yellowed by time
and exposure and neglect.
In what moment of bliss or madness
did Fitzgerald uncover that gem?
“Hell is being scared of things.”
the Robbins novel is a window to the past,
long afternoons on the mattress on the cement floor,
as the termites ate the house down.
We were so eager to carve out a spirituality
“I used to hold my breath waiting for euphoria.”
an old Bukowski book with my scribbles in it
stares at me like a stow away on a time machine.
A lifetime is too long to be forced into one reflection.
We do not change enough to bare the boredom of selves.
I have forgotten all the things I’ve wanted to be.
What have I accomplished tonight?
Another navel gazing poem that helped pass the hour.
Better than slowly disappearing, I suppose.
Better than following snarky tweets about dementia in power.
Any time spent poking at the center
has to mean something.
February 23, 2016
A Lie and A Scam
I’ve never lived alone.
Never in my life have I had my “own” place. As a kid, I obviously lived with my family till I was eighteen at which point I moved to San Diego and shared a room with some dude named Josh in the dorms for a semester. Then I was back in San Rafael where I shared an apartment with Anthony on Fourth street. From there we moved to 1576 with Ant, Josh and Einar. Then a few trips down to San Diego ago in houses with Jeff, Gabe, and Jason. A trip back to Novato- 760 something- with Ant and Jason where I didn’t even have a room. I had a double bed in the living room. We planned to build a paper mache dome bubble over my space, but that never materialised. That house was actually more about decay than construction.
Eventually Anthony and I moved to San Francisco and our place on Haight Street. From there to the ghetto pad on Natoma alley South of Market with Justin, Ant and Chris. That didn’t last too long, and I was in the studio in the Tenderloin in the sunlight studio on Jones street with Cortney.
After that off to Mozambique in training with twenty other people and then…..actually there were a few months when I lived in Qussico that I had my own place. Sure I had no furniture, water, electricity, or friends and it rained everyday I was there, but it was my own space. Then Mairin moved in and from there we moved to NYC with Ari and the rest is history.
I am not sure I could handle being alone. I think I could romanticise the solitude- imagine a tortured artist man cave with vinyl records, full ash trays and Bukowski books. Some kind of recording space and stacks of books, but the reality of the loneliness would be soul crushing for me.
Eventually Anthony and I moved to San Francisco and our place on Haight Street. From there to the ghetto pad on Natoma alley South of Market with Justin, Ant and Chris. That didn’t last too long, and I was in the studio in the Tenderloin in the sunlight studio on Jones street with Cortney.
After that off to Mozambique in training with twenty other people and then…..actually there were a few months when I lived in Qussico that I had my own place. Sure I had no furniture, water, electricity, or friends and it rained everyday I was there, but it was my own space. Then Mairin moved in and from there we moved to NYC with Ari and the rest is history.
I am not sure I could handle being alone. I think I could romanticise the solitude- imagine a tortured artist man cave with vinyl records, full ash trays and Bukowski books. Some kind of recording space and stacks of books, but the reality of the loneliness would be soul crushing for me.
We watched How To Be Single, an average romantic comedy about being alone and single or in a relationship. It got me thinking about the places I have lived and the people who inhabited those spaces with me. It made me grateful for you all. No matter how introverted I sometimes feel, I know that I love the idea of having a full home with a family and people I can talk to and argue with and share with and eat with and fall asleep next to and love and be loved by.
…
Sometimes out of nowhere I think- what if everyone who I think likes me, actually hates me? What if the self I have created and believe to be my true self is actually an obnoxious asshole that people just tolerate? What if when I am not around people talk about how they are glad I am not around? What if I am not invited to things because people prefer not to have me around? What if I spend so much time alone, not out of choice, but because people choose to leave me out?
What if the likes don’t really mean like?
What if I’ve never gotten it right, just a series of almosts or way offs. Pretend smiles and false friendships. Surface loves and cordial smiles. Professionalisms but never friendships. Sometimes out of nowhere I think…and then just like that it passes.
…
We talked about mindfulness today during mentor class. I don’t like that the term has become so cliche and jargon-y. It feels like everyone is talking about it these days, so did we. But it was nice. I shared my experiences with mediation- talked about how hard it is for me to mediate, but I also explained how and why I appreciate it. I told them about my mom living at Tassajara and training to be a Zen priest. I felt pride sharing her story. My students looked at and listened to me thoughtfully. I turned the lights low and we did some deep breathing. We sat in silence and they looked calm and serene and peaceful and attentive for a few minutes. I book talked Peace is Everystep and one of my quieter girls checked it out and said she wants to give it a try.
I hope she finds some wisdom in it.
Students learn when we share what we know and love with them as authentically as we can.
…
Sometimes out of nowhere I think- what if everyone who I think likes me, actually hates me? What if the self I have created and believe to be my true self is actually an obnoxious asshole that people just tolerate? What if when I am not around people talk about how they are glad I am not around? What if I am not invited to things because people prefer not to have me around? What if I spend so much time alone, not out of choice, but because people choose to leave me out?
What if the likes don’t really mean like?
What if I’ve never gotten it right, just a series of almosts or way offs. Pretend smiles and false friendships. Surface loves and cordial smiles. Professionalisms but never friendships. Sometimes out of nowhere I think…and then just like that it passes.
…
We talked about mindfulness today during mentor class. I don’t like that the term has become so cliche and jargon-y. It feels like everyone is talking about it these days, so did we. But it was nice. I shared my experiences with mediation- talked about how hard it is for me to mediate, but I also explained how and why I appreciate it. I told them about my mom living at Tassajara and training to be a Zen priest. I felt pride sharing her story. My students looked at and listened to me thoughtfully. I turned the lights low and we did some deep breathing. We sat in silence and they looked calm and serene and peaceful and attentive for a few minutes. I book talked Peace is Everystep and one of my quieter girls checked it out and said she wants to give it a try.
I hope she finds some wisdom in it.
Students learn when we share what we know and love with them as authentically as we can.
Everything else is a lie and scam.
March 3, 2011
Ashes
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
 |
| What kind of other art do you appreciate? Make a photograph that celebrates it today. |
October 14, 2008
Let It Enfold You
We are all a bit sick at our house. Tensions are running high and the moods are foul. I am at the keyboard not knowing where to turn. I turn to where I have turned a million times before. Charles Bukowski comes through again:
Let It Enfold You by Charles Bukowski
either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when i was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.
...read the rest here.
Let It Enfold You by Charles Bukowski
either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when i was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.
...read the rest here.
March 31, 2008
Freedom
This is where I am right now. This post may be a bit messy and jumbled and all over the place, but like I said here is where I am. A few days ago I received this Rumi poem from my mom:
An empty mirror and your worst destructive habits,
when they are held up to each other,
that's when the real making begins.
that's what art and crafting are.
A tailor needs a torn garment to practice his expertise,
the trunks of tree must be cut and cut again
so they be used for fine carpentry.
I have wanted to write to her and thank her ever since. I have wanted to write something about it, but after a week it has simply floated in my subconscious, and now I offer it to you. I am not sure who you are any more, but I realize now that you have the power to take my job and restrict my freedom. Funny, cause I thought no one was reading these words, and now you are so ever present in how I think, feel, write, and live. I am no longer free.
I am not angry at you any more for taking away my voice, because, really, you have helped me find it. I repeat myself so many times here that even I get tired of it, but I am sorry if I offend. I am not sure what is so offensive about trying to understand peace. I suppose those hell bent on war find peace offensive. There is nothing I can do about that. Remember the enemy is within don’t confuse me with him.
Speaking of Elliott Smith, I have been listening to him a lot lately. I also received this email from my best friend last night:
People can offer sympathy, direction, answers, but we know all of this amounts to little. It's easy to draw connections and sharedness to people through their emotional states, but in the end sadness, depression, anxiety are terribly isolated (and isolating) events that we work out (and through) alone. Whatever i can do to be there for you, please let me know, and if its just this all the better.
It makes me feel good in the same way that Elliott Smith does. I locked myself in my room today with the following books, my guitar, and wrote three songs. Here is the first one called River. I hope to have the others recorded and on a Youtube near you this week.
I couldn’t sleep last night because of my back pain and some kind of weird dehydration. So I sat at the computer and wrote this poem:
12:39 am
can’t sleep
my mind is full of indecisions
not mine to not make
i can’t piss
because of dehydration
or urinary track infection
or some other unexplainable
abuse of my body
my back still stress aches,
i sit in my underwear freezing
in an overly air conditioned house
in the desert
drinking cup after cup
of ice cold water hoping
i can piss it all out and get some rest
the words drip out one by one
i drink my water,
and read Bukowski poems
they have been the only
thing to ever make things right
I am not sure, should I apologize to you for using the word piss? Where has my freedom gone? Are you still there? I figure that I am paid to teach poetry and sometimes in poetry people use the word piss. If that is not appropriate, I am sorry. Don’t blame me. Blame the poets.
I have been reading a lot of Bukowski. Is that okay? Some people go to the Gospels for guidance, I go to ole Hank. Here is what he had to say:
nobody but you
nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit, and/or die quietly
inside.
nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?
nobody can save you but
yourself
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it
think about it.
think about saving your self
your spiritual self
your gut self
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self
save it
don’t join the dead-in-spirit
maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary
wager your life as you struggle,
damn the odds, damn
the price
only you can save your
self
do it! do it!
then you’ll know exactly what
I am taking about.
So there you have it. Writing poems, songs, while reading to Bukowski and Elliot Smith. It ain't pretty but it gets the job done. Now, it is 1:56 pm. I am thirty-three years old and waiting for my daughter to wake up, so I can take her to water our garden and play in the water. It will be about 105 degrees and our first tomato may be ready to eat. I have been looking forward to that for three weeks. We will listen to something happy and cheerful. We will get wet. We will dance. I will wonder if there is anybody teaching my students, right now, in my classroom to:
think about saving their self
their spiritual self
their gut self
their singing magical self and
their beautiful self
But then, I remember that nobody taught me how to do that. I just kind of figured it out on my own, with the help of some friends, family, books, and my freedom to write and make mistakes. So I am sorry if I offend, but like Hank says- there is a lot at stake here. This is my life and it is the only one I have. I have chosen the power of art to save me, and I am not about to give up on it now.
Check back tomorrow, I am sure I will be some place else....
An empty mirror and your worst destructive habits,
when they are held up to each other,
that's when the real making begins.
that's what art and crafting are.
A tailor needs a torn garment to practice his expertise,
the trunks of tree must be cut and cut again
so they be used for fine carpentry.
I have wanted to write to her and thank her ever since. I have wanted to write something about it, but after a week it has simply floated in my subconscious, and now I offer it to you. I am not sure who you are any more, but I realize now that you have the power to take my job and restrict my freedom. Funny, cause I thought no one was reading these words, and now you are so ever present in how I think, feel, write, and live. I am no longer free.
I am not angry at you any more for taking away my voice, because, really, you have helped me find it. I repeat myself so many times here that even I get tired of it, but I am sorry if I offend. I am not sure what is so offensive about trying to understand peace. I suppose those hell bent on war find peace offensive. There is nothing I can do about that. Remember the enemy is within don’t confuse me with him.
Speaking of Elliott Smith, I have been listening to him a lot lately. I also received this email from my best friend last night:
People can offer sympathy, direction, answers, but we know all of this amounts to little. It's easy to draw connections and sharedness to people through their emotional states, but in the end sadness, depression, anxiety are terribly isolated (and isolating) events that we work out (and through) alone. Whatever i can do to be there for you, please let me know, and if its just this all the better.
It makes me feel good in the same way that Elliott Smith does. I locked myself in my room today with the following books, my guitar, and wrote three songs. Here is the first one called River. I hope to have the others recorded and on a Youtube near you this week.
I couldn’t sleep last night because of my back pain and some kind of weird dehydration. So I sat at the computer and wrote this poem:
12:39 am
can’t sleep
my mind is full of indecisions
not mine to not make
i can’t piss
because of dehydration
or urinary track infection
or some other unexplainable
abuse of my body
my back still stress aches,
i sit in my underwear freezing
in an overly air conditioned house
in the desert
drinking cup after cup
of ice cold water hoping
i can piss it all out and get some rest
the words drip out one by one
i drink my water,
and read Bukowski poems
they have been the only
thing to ever make things right
I am not sure, should I apologize to you for using the word piss? Where has my freedom gone? Are you still there? I figure that I am paid to teach poetry and sometimes in poetry people use the word piss. If that is not appropriate, I am sorry. Don’t blame me. Blame the poets.
I have been reading a lot of Bukowski. Is that okay? Some people go to the Gospels for guidance, I go to ole Hank. Here is what he had to say:
nobody but you
nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit, and/or die quietly
inside.
nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?
nobody can save you but
yourself
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it
think about it.
think about saving your self
your spiritual self
your gut self
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self
save it
don’t join the dead-in-spirit
maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary
wager your life as you struggle,
damn the odds, damn
the price
only you can save your
self
do it! do it!
then you’ll know exactly what
I am taking about.
So there you have it. Writing poems, songs, while reading to Bukowski and Elliot Smith. It ain't pretty but it gets the job done. Now, it is 1:56 pm. I am thirty-three years old and waiting for my daughter to wake up, so I can take her to water our garden and play in the water. It will be about 105 degrees and our first tomato may be ready to eat. I have been looking forward to that for three weeks. We will listen to something happy and cheerful. We will get wet. We will dance. I will wonder if there is anybody teaching my students, right now, in my classroom to:
think about saving their self
their spiritual self
their gut self
their singing magical self and
their beautiful self
But then, I remember that nobody taught me how to do that. I just kind of figured it out on my own, with the help of some friends, family, books, and my freedom to write and make mistakes. So I am sorry if I offend, but like Hank says- there is a lot at stake here. This is my life and it is the only one I have. I have chosen the power of art to save me, and I am not about to give up on it now.
Check back tomorrow, I am sure I will be some place else....
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