Sometimes, after several long days, or deep bottles of wine or too many work functions, I can’t find the right words on my own to articulate how I feel…but I need to emote; just to rest the hamster wheel in my head. The creek is dry from the tears I’ve shed and the blood and sweat I’ve toiled through…and I’m left a slightly dehydrated, semantically speaking, sadder version of myself. That’s when I read and listen to music the most.
First, I go through old vinyl I’ve found at flea markets and garage sales. I listen to Beethoven’s Pathetique on a 50 cent record I found in a bargain bin in the thrift shop in Columbus, Ohio. I’ll dig out some Tammy Wynette 45 I forgot I had. I’ll throw on some weird B-side John Lennon shit no one has heard since 1971. (I like listening to that stuff because I feel like 50 cents sometimes. I feel like Tammy, at the pawn shop with Two Golden Rings. I feel weird..and B-side-ish. And I feel like John would appreciate that at least one lost soul didn’t forget “How do You Sleep”.)
I pore through books I’ve already read (some twice), different poetry I’ve never seen before but whose authors’ I’ve heard about in passing…I’ll even search by hashtags on Instagram and Twitter….just to refill my proverbial tank.
Tonight….was one of those times.
In my imagination….standing in the shadows of the old, crippled, knotty trees on the far side of this dry creek bed tonight was Charles Bukowski. Unshaven, with greasy hair, in a thoroughly-worn trench coat, I could just make out the ember of his cigarette as he inhaled. I was so grateful for his company, though I could only at first make out his silhouette through the dark and fog. As I approached him (“him”, metaphorically of course, being my emotional exhaustion and ultimately, the precipice of my palpable heartache), he pulled this folded, wrinkled and yellowed paper from his trench coat’s pocket, like he had kept it in there for me for years, maybe decades. I unfolded it. It didn’t say much, but he said just enough to tuck me in tonight. Thanks, Chuck.
A poem for the playgirls of the universe
I like women who haven’t lived with too many men or
had too many one night stands.
I don’t expect a virgin but I simply prefer a woman
who hasn’t been rubbed dry by experience.
There is a quality about women who have chosen
it appears in their walk
in their eyes
in their laughter and in
Women who have had many men
seem to choose each next
out of vengeance rather than
When one plays the field, one works against
one can’t create love or
You’re finally left with the same
you have given:
Some human beings are delicate things,
some human beings are delicious and wondrous
If you want to piss on the sun,
but leave them