On Writing (Tribute to Bukowski)

you wanna be a writer
to heal the madness eating your soul
to write yourself against the blank spaces, pages
you drink while you tap letters, never knowing if it any good
      -honestly, not caring

diving straight in
waiting for nothing as rockets
f l y from your mind
and fingers, pens sweep
through
trying to understand the world –
words

Desperado

There’s a man standing on a rooftop
Thinking in passive-active pace
Distraught in introspection and dying
By the second. He does not know what to do,
He’s trying to let go: like a bullet and jump.
But something’s holding his feet back
Like a fading pen’s ink. He’s chasing love
Last night and is still fading tonight.
He looks below and see blurred fast lights slow down
Before him as he wonders how many
Seconds till the fall, till his bones are
Fully broken like his truths and soul.

Commuting the City

It is 2 am and I am waiting
for a ride, a coach.
The city lights reflected thru my
cold coffee in can.
People around are skidding past me,
boughs of noises kissing my ears.
I think.
I slowly walk the dry road then saw
maidens or loose women
as they say,
licking their lips painted shot red
waiting for a money pot.
There behind them
kids – barely as they look much younger in stance
yet older by skin
lounging at solvent’s edge.

Amidst all these I was fascinated
by a lone cat, one-eyed, the other non-existent,
about to cross the high-speed road
then died.