Everything you wish was true is true

But my wishes are lonely
i'm always letting go of the raft
and hoping it makes it to shore
my body bloated and sun bleached
follows
because my dreams don't have me making it
my dreams are for survivor's
for civilians
for the hopefull, selfish and stupid.
i wish on that star
falling fast and far
but the dark matter
takes the sunshine
and follows like a moth
my dreaming
a clean white cotton dress
life making dark
well lived
in others hopes
in hand me downs
in pushing to pull up
in the out

Another Bukowski kind of day...

:Art can’t operate in Crowds. Art does not belong at parties, nor does it belong at Inauguration Speeches.” —letter to Jon Webb, 1962, in Screams from the Balcony, Black Sparrow Press, 1993

i guess being a writer in LA makes it this way...

Modern Romance

She drinks and reads Bukowski.
Rinse and repeat
looking for a filthy poet
looking for a man with balls
to see you
for who you are
and love you anyway

she drinks more

once she had a dream
then she had it again
and again
she was twelve or thirteen
her bedroom was bared
the nazis were ready to bake her
then
there he was
setting her free
she was free from the moment she saw him
they never got away
they always got caught at the train station
because there was no where else to go
no one else who would help

such is life

she drinks more
till the words blur
she's a Bukowski dream
sprawling across the city
killing the country

are you a poem or a poet
are you a poem or a poet
her brain asks itself
so many times
her lips begin to move
till she's screaming it

the couple next door save her
banging on their shared wall
they have a baby