9/16/04
however the get to going is laid out
a butter day is always on the other side
some behind shoulder ghost smirks
as you tumble into scented hallways
and then someone takes your hand
for the first time in forever
and suddenly, you are on the other side.
1/15/05
you can take the side street ice way
down into warm jungles of freeway sweet talk,
you can melt the zero day
into a boiling pulling ocean,
the scrappy face of what time has taken
might drag bottoms
like sandy abandon
til sunlight seems like your last dream
a begging hungry child,
but you will never swim
alone again.

we’re down riding the city
taking cold breathes of curb side junk
waking all the regulars
and screwing up the night.

there’s the tiny boat out far
watching with a blind little face
and with a cold water bed he waves
autistic bobbing in one place.

for got ten
there’s a part of my shoe that you will never know
and while a tomato paste stain lingers
hard on kitchen door cabinet
nearly belching with canned food
i hope to eat someday
i will remain the last step of counter leans
on an empty walking day.
before there was the eating noise of sunlight
i was dripping into an everything
that allowed for such bad behavior
and lost
i would hit back.


ask your darts
to a truthful aim
unwatering eyes
in the pouring rain
when riding through storms
legs under tables
arms air guitaring
Cruel To Be Kind
my corn hair ideas
drip off your hands
like bay ducks
and sweet and sour pink sauce
i am not getting all of this
or maybe the bulls eye
has already been dotted
smack dab
wham bam
i am all in the cake frosting
without an oven mitt
for protection
is it time?

the back street is slipping
toward black ice brakers
and everytime we swerve, i gasp.
we arrive
shaking in our shirts

there’s a wide grin
hiding under an eye watering stream
going through changes
and everytime the tide shifts
the moon blinks.
something holds the seasons.
something always breaks away.
it‘s when we’re dealing with the dust,
swirling after the kill,
that we stumble around
dealing with the fog.

I got up this morning
and drove into garlands of rain
there was a road
that ate it’s own tail
and at one point
i talked to peter jennings.
my dodge was a rare beast
and sang old christmas songs
from the backseat.
we tooled beside the lake
and took that sad old grey
all the way home.

digging for someone else's post it note
in a foggy birdless parking lot
like there was no crazy
on the other side...

there was a time
when the rain used to give me clues
and the day never carried gloves
it used to be very warm
you could never see anything
we were all running around
busting into eachother
then gradually everything slowed up
and dried away.

Here are some people's thoughts on Charles Bukowski's Love Is A Dog From Hell:

Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977 > Customer Review #3:
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Ordinary and Obvious

I heard Bukowski on a late night community radio show complaining about "a whore who took my poems". Thats how I was introduced to him. Bukowski was overly ordinary, in my opinion, and extremely obivous. From what I heard about him from an ex-hippy co-worker, he deprived himself of typical white suburbia lifestyle -either circumstancially or just because he was most lazy person on this earth to achieve any material goals. In this collection, he goes on and on about the women he had sex with, women he would like to have sex with and his fetishes with utmost honesty. That is admirable. He himself wasnt. He wrote sometimes because his publisher pushed him to do so. In some poems, he admits to it. He was a dirty old man, starred at "upskirts...legs and strawberry lipsticks" of 13 year old school girls waiting at bus-stop. He wrote a poem about it neverthless. He wanted to commit suicide. We read about it too.
And, almost 9 out of 10 times, it never fails -he is sipping some kind of brew, his gastrointestinal problems followed by the heavy drinking, bitching about some random woman, listening to classical music and pondering why he is writing...bunch of drivel. But, its great! Bukowski enunciates the lonesome,decapitated and boring side of humanity. Its worth a read. I only wish there were more "poetry" such as this.

Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977 > Customer Review #1:
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Buks soul on paper

So many writers have mired themselves in a cloud of smoke, sex and booze to try and find some oasis of writing clarity or purety of the human experience. Some have been succesful - many have not. The image of the weathered writer smoking, hunched over his typewriter is as old as anything. It is hard to not be cliche when you attack writing-and life-from this angle. "Love is A Dog..." has a refreshing clarity through the haze of smoke and self-loathing that surrounds a good deal of Bukowskis work. He has such a gift for creating and conveying images that at times, the quality of his prose may wane - but his poetry soars. Using less words for more impact, as well as the brevity and abruptness of some poems only serve to make them hit home harder. Notable mentions: "One for the Shoeshine Man," "How to Be A Great Writer" and "Cold Plums." This is a certain brand of poetry which Im sure wont be liked by all - but damned worth giving a chance.


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Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977 > Customer Review #2:
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BUKOWSKI--A BRILLIANT BARFLY

As the author of current mystery novel that features a Southern California private eye who is also a small-press poet, I am a great admirer of Charles Bukowski and his work. LOVE IS A DOG FROM HELL is my favorite Bukowski collection, and it provides the reader with a comprehensive selection of this great contemporary poets work. Bukowskis work has had a strong influence on my own poetry as well as on the poetry of my fictional private cop. Upon his death, I wrote tribute poem honoring this admirable writer, and it quickly found publication. I would recommend LOVE IS A DOG FROM HELL to any reader who wants to become familiar with Charles Bukowskis lifes work.

you gotta keep your eyes on the grapple locks

tangle doubt with open space
the trigger bouts of juniper
climb morning glories
with warm melting wings
keep out your turning masses
but wave in the free.

you glass up the worrying tree
and free split into thin air
the old topple back is back
and your front yard
is a freakin’ mess.

from the swanky depths
of what used to be a very feathery drown
hands reach skyward
and together manage with twisting branches
to pull off the night

going by knuckle scraping accuracy this time
like taking out the dog
you’ll see me in the alley next time
saying shit about no god.


4/11/04
gave away the jump key
for a quick ride by the river

wavin’ at the trees on the other side
the whole damn time

and somehow i’ve lost my voice
cold rickety as it was

and as you drive much faster
the wider the water gets

i sit in the back seat window
staring at the water

Fuck, beer me you devil

Books try
to tell the story
about what happens
here on earth
but none come close
to the actual chaos
they can
never exactly draw
the everything shift
and we read
to escape it
trade you this
for that.



3/6/04
tackle me away

tough
into the dirt
we go sailing
someone’s gonna get hurt.
oh shit
let’s admit
that everyone is gonna get hurt
and in between
the bewilderment
and beside
the gunny sack of guilt
will be our magic trick
turning the key in the lock

4/2/04
brittle frozen finger bites

hanging so close to the tiny pieces of gravel
laying still as mimes
on the scummy rug
your feet kick in their sleep
just like they kick at the table
i could have blood
dripping from my mouth
pouring from my eyes
and you’d still kick my legs
and i’d still look the same.

you gotta keep your eyes on the grapple locks

tangle doubt with open space
the trigger bouts of juniper
climb morning glories
with warm melting wings
keep out your turning masses
but wave in the free.

forget that stars blink
forget the way some people lower the tip
of their right eyebrow
when you say a little too long
and look away
everyone is tied to a burning sky
just like you.