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flowers for Chinaski -- part ii

part ii

There was a time
when I wanted to be one of them,

to somehow fit in
with the fancy rituals
of their high society.
But the da-Dumb, da-Dumb, da-Dumb
made me want to puke,
made me want to bounce my head 
off the table, hopefully causing the bone china
and forks
to add clatter to their snobbish 

Words like "gossamer" 
flitted around the room,
word so thin but veiled 

and distant,

even the candle light appeared
to shy away from those dry wings.

The snobs talked about how
I was too simple with words.
They did so with such a simple, 
the irony provided oxygen for flame
to devour.

And the critics proclaimed that
I wasn't able to love,
when really, I just wanted to get away
from them, 
smoke a cigarette in peace
while hitchhiking back to my chubby cherub,
feel her belly fall and rise against my skin.

I was finally able to love,
and she died.

The previous pain had been for show:
"Look at the drunk ham
feeling sorry for himself."

But when she died,
I distilled tears
into a different type of proof.
I was no longer willing to be
their carnival attraction
placated under the table,
listening to them upstage each other.

When I was able to stand again,
a cold, sharp thing was birthed in my mind,
I wanted to shoot them all between the eyes,
splatter their degrees and deeds 
with their blood and brains.

I found peace though -
stopped wanting to be one of them.

I found peace
away from their chatter
about what to carve on their headstones
or what type of fancy imported granite
their mausoleums should be constructed of.

I found peace in readying myself to be 
consumed by 
to be perspired into the open, fathomless sky --
the same deep blue as the bird 
who finally pecked his way
through the rusted cage of my heart,

freeing us both.

April 12th, 2014

“i am with the roots
of flowers
entwined, entombed
sending up my passionate blossoms
as a flight of rockets
and argument...."

-- Charles Bukowski,
"The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966"



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  1. Date: 4/16/2014 6:25:00 PM

    This second part is more than great and can stand by itself. I think that is - Bukowsky and + Aechtner which it's even better. Another fav, Mister.
  1. Date: 4/16/2014 4:22:00 PM

    This is so ironic. I hope you don't think I am one of them, the snobby "poetic" crowd who, btw don't even know what gossamer truly is because they are pseudo intellectuals and not truly gifted like you. I envy your mind but at the same time, do you truly struggle with the world this much or is your art so totally convincing---perhaps both? I am not of the gossamer wing which is the metaphor but instead one of the baby spiders waiting for a magic ride to wherever the breeze may go. Luv Ya Babe!
  1. Date: 4/16/2014 2:51:00 PM

    Sexy, is the truth in these words. This read like directions through the labyrinth of self proclamation and friendship validation. I wonder why we entertain validity for our identity as poets! Strong Write, Wu!
  1. Date: 4/14/2014 10:35:00 PM

    Burn, baby burn. I know you do not like to emulate, but this is that rawness I can never seem to allow myself to fully expose. I'm feeling oddly restless tonight. I don't know if its the storm approaching (snow??!$%) or the dark news on the television or just a feeling of discontent. Reading this did not help. LOL. I mean this as a compliment. I think if I read something about buttercups or dollies I would spin like Linda Blair and say very nasty things. This was salt. Good salt.
  1. Date: 4/14/2014 3:05:00 PM

    This is an amazing write, Chris. I am deeply moved....I don't want to make a comment that will be trite the mark. Peace is illusive at times...but it comes with self acceptance and knowledge of our true worth. Those others....well. They have their share coming to them. Thank you for my placement in your contest. I'm not sure if you read reply to comments. I do hope you will go back and read what I wrote. I have a request to make...Thanks