Thursday, December 27, 2012

What Charlie Said


I’m sitting here waiting
For that damn bug to climb down the wall.
And that’s what’s bugging me.
The blasted thing has six legs
You’d think it’d move faster.

All we got is this field of white.
That’s what we artistes do.
Or should that be artisti do,
Stare at white and blink sometimes
And wait on the freakin’ bug.

It don’t take a big vocabulary to write;
Hemingway proved that.
Maybe it do or don’t take genius.
What it takes is one hard ass
While you hope the bug’s photogenic.

Photograph is of Charles Bukowski

Unsunny Sunday


It’s a miserable day.
Perfect for a walk.
Nothing takes away the memory
Of misery
Than a miserable stalk
Down a rainy trail

It’s a miserable morn,
Drear and cold damp.
I’ll let the wind and drizzle
Wash my tears
Down the wrinkled ramp
Of my aging face.

It’s a miserable path.
Wet and gritty.
Can you imagine a better clime
To write rhyme
bemoaning self pity
From my groaning soul?

It’s an misnomered day.
Sunday afternoon
Washing down the gutter of my psyche
And cluttering
Like litter and doom
The drainpipe of my life.

Broken Child


Are all writers broken children?
What drove us to speak, to talk, to shout and scream
With our mouths closed and lips unmoved;
Ventriloquist to our characters?

We face a blank page as if it a mirror darkly
Might reflect unseeable images of our inner self
Or is it someone else?
Or the souls of persons nonexistent?
Do we tell of the life we lead or the life we wished?
We pour out some hidden world, secrets of our psyche.
Is it mere imagination or the deeper truths of human nature.
Are we imbued with insight and perceptitive minds
Or because we are but broken children
Is it just retaliation?