—FIRST THE WINDOW, THEN IT’S TO THE WALL

 

                Store that
              contaminated
            fetus
          of dioxin in
        the womb
      line those lungs
    with the snowflakes
  of asbestos
—From “Plain Truth” Jayne Cortez

  

 

“you won’t see them often

for wherever the crowd is

they

are not.

those odd ones, not

many

but from them

come

the few

good paintings

the few

good symphonies

the few

good books

and other

works.

and from the

best of the

strange ones

perhaps

nothing.

they are

their own

paintings

their own

books

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes I think

I see

them – say

a certain old

man

sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain

way

or

a quick face

going the other

way

in a passing

automobile

or

there’s a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-

girl

while packing

supermarket

groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some

time –

you will notice

a

lightning quick

glance

never seen

from them

before.

sometimes

you will only note

their

existence

suddenly

in

vivid

recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remember

such a

one –

he was about

20 years old

drunk at

10 a.m.

staring into

a cracked

New Orleans

mirror

facing, dreaming

against the

walls of

the world

where

did I

go?”

–Charles Bukowski, "The Strongest of The Strange"

  

 

sometimes I think the gods

deliberately keep pushing me

into the fire

just to hear me

yelp 

a few good

lines.

they just aren't going to

let me retire

silk scarf about neck

giving lectures at 

Yale.

the gods need me to

entertain them.

they must be terribly

bored with all

the others

and I am too.

and now my cigarette lighter

has gone dry.

I sit here

hopelessly

flicking it.

this kind of fire

they can't give

me.

~ Charles Bukowski, "this kind of fire"

 

 

An Octopus Has Three Whole Hearts

 

and sometimes I lie awake thinking
about all that lub-dubbing
on the ocean floor and no one to hear it.
What kind of god gives a cephalopod
three but a human only one?
I want more thumps. I want more time.
I want to waste my love on everything.
Give me heart for Ohio. Another
for a silk butter moon. Another
for the park bench man who swoons
for dives, his quiet hands full of crumbs.

--Joy Sullivan