the streets smell of coffee
and the burnt ends of last night’s cigarettes.
faces move past me like they’ve been sandpapered—
eyes dull, shoulders pulled up like bad weather.
the mailman walks slower,
the bartender pours heavier,
even the pigeons look nervous.
something’s in the air—
a weight you can’t see
but you feel it pressing your ribs.
I drink my beer,
pretend I’m above it,
but the truth is my chest is tight too.
whatever it is,
it’s leaking through the cracks.
and we’re all standing in it,
pretending it’s just another day.
too little
too late
too forced
too late
too restrained
too late
now it's just too late
you could have been my love
but i waited
made you my regret
no one wants to be someone's regret
bottles clink like keys to hell's doors,
my hands shook before they stilled in gin,
first it was a love affair—
warm whiskey whispers on cold nights,
the booze bloomed,
and I rode the flame like a fool on fire.
years lost, sweat-soaked in bars,
conversations slurred, jobs slipping
through my fingers like sand.
I traded promises for the bottom of a glass,
women for the next cheap thrill—
a barstool my throne,
but the drinks never loved me back.
the mornings were cruel
with the sun stabbing my skull,
and all the friends turned to ghosts,
I was king of my own wreckage,
but the throne was burning,
and still, I drank
the keys stick when I type,
the ink smudges on cheap paper,
there’s an old man in the corner
laughing through his dentures at my words.
he knows, I know—
it’s all garbage,
all of it.
writing the same worn-out lines,
spinning circles around rent checks
that will barely clear.
this morning, the phone rang,
and I thought it was hope—
turned out to be another
rejection letter in a different voice.
I’m smoking old cigars
that burn the fingers but not the mind,
drinking coffee cold as winter in a can,
wondering how I ended up here,
writing just to keep the lights on.
and that goldfish,
it’s still there—
belly-up in its bowl,
not even a bubble left
to prove it ever lived.
I haven’t flushed it.
I’ll keep it as a reminder,
that we all float for a while
before sinking.
the landlord knocks again,
the ashtray overflows.
they peel back my skin
like old wallpaper,
the stink rising
as the organs, bruised and bloated,
spill out like forgotten secrets.
the saw hums,
cutting through bone like butter,
the ribs cracking open
to a cold, fluorescent light
that never flinches.
the heart, heavy, useless now,
is weighed and tossed aside,
just another lump of meat
in a world that’s always hungry
for the next hollow thing.
looking down on what's left of me,
I turn in dicust
having to do this sll over again.
Listen up, folks, 'cause here's my confession,
I ain't one for modesty or discretion.
I'll tell you straight, without any delay,
What I truly adore, come what may.
It's hedonistic pleasure that I seek,
With every passion that I choose to peak.
I push the limits, go beyond the light,
And sometimes it scares the folks in sight.
But when the day is done and the night's begun,
I'll tell you, friend, it's all for fun.
The sun will rise and the world will shine,
And I'll be out there, living it up, feeling fine.
So don't you judge or try to reign me in,
'Cause this is who I am, and I always win.
My love for life is sweet and true,
And nothing, no one, can bring me down or subdue.
:: 03 26 2023 ::
Charles Bukowski
I read a fine essay written by a friend of mine, Bukowski
I thought he was a great poet and writer, whether the high
table of the educated literate think, or not because from
where he wrote, the side streets of life, unfamiliar to them.
Many famous writers/poets drink; I think this is because they
have finished writing for the day, they feel empty inside
alcohol salivate the sense of tristesse, meeting friends for
drinks as whisky and conversation flows
Ernest Hemingway was a heavy drinker, which is overlooked
by his admirers, he had been to Paris, the middle-class son
of a doctor; his drinking had charm, the fishing and shooting
When I read Bukowski’s novel the “post office” I remember
opening the book, a rainy afternoon, absorbed by his art
I lost track of time; I followed his journey doing menial tasks
The boredom of having to make a living when all he wanted
to do was to write against the odds; he did write and gave
us, the beauty of his soul.
To come and go
and not be afraid of the light.
Again I'm a child and my secrets
I have chosen can you love me?
Death will come this I know
slowly I grow you remember.
The bottles were colored when first I arrived.
Hairy eyes hiding tremors pass.
I agonize once again arsenic moons.
A man makes his bed yet a child and his maid.
Starched white shirts in the closet I hide
from the church.
Mary wept but the nuns make me weep even more.
Loneliness is a face never seen.
I drink it all as a child what they allow.
Buds and bells heaven is not full of metaphors
I can change but I won't.
When I write best this way unlike you.
Your will I don't want just my cat.
Coming back here your heart once mine was too heavy.
Wide and straight the road.
Narrow paths for dark horses the moon the clouds
they pass by me lost without you my bed wetter.
God help me I can once again hear loud sucking noises
soft whimpers and quite cries for a price.
Mummy the bottle on the floor it is empty.
She comes in a double glass, blood red dress.
I did not write this because of the hairy eye hiding.
But children and their secret lips confessed.
James McLain Thursday, August 11, 2011
I used to be
Afraid Of Poetry
Until I read
Bukowski
too nervous to
sit on a stool i
need fuel
sad of the rumble
outside he was
asked inside
but a shot or two
not asked but
given to
his art is part
of the bleeding
not needing to be
taken from his
glass but as a
do anything
but it
all comes
from the fuel
Hank was a blitz-drinking honest brute.
He wrote about the grime and grit of the streets.
Drunks, alley roaches, hookers on the beat.
Emily chose to live life in a little room.
A daydreaming spinster writing dainty verse.
Across those pages were the seeds of her hurt. *
Hank, the self-professed loner, sought out company.
Emily was really the burlap and he the delicate lace.
Poetry is a mountain made of many masks.
With the truth lying just underneath.
Ive been reading Bukowski
And Ive read about him
About how many poems he would write
I dont write that many poems
And mine arent like his
So can I call myself a poet?
I started reading again
Bukowski
the lonesome, alcoholic bastard
I moved back into my parents house recently,
if only for a time.
And I started reading again
and drinking
And then more drinking
and less reading
Until I was drunk
every night
Watching TV and
feeling real loathsome
My girlfriend and I aren't talking right now,
but I am writing this
I guess one could call that progress.
“She is mad but she is magic,
there is no lie in her fire.”
There may be
no lie in her fire,
but there is
deception in her eyes
and wrongness
in her blood.
She is the monster
that keeps me up at night
wishing to forget.
A Chip Off the Old Bukowski Block ©
i sit here on the toilet
looking at the cane by my side
when did this happen?
its pronged feet could, at any moment,
scamper into a tidal pool, so much does it
remind me of a robotic crab
my mornings now consist of pills, shuffling
to the next room to pour cereal
then work up a **** before I can
leave the house
When did this happen?
bodily functions take priority as
I can no longer trust this body not
to embarrass me in public
when did this happen?
my knees are shot to hell
my bowels rumble and twist
my arthritis tears at me with sharp little teeth
my vision is perfect, cataracts
blasted away by another robot
when did this happen?
the other day my mind went on a holiday
leaving me behind, confused and blank,
frightened
is this a harbinger of what’s to come
when did this happen?
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