I want none of this

You know?

You know?

You know?


Spaces for dramatic emphasis. Pauses for interpretations. Repeat differently.
All as it seems.


I know.

I know.

I know.


Not silences.

Between a question and an answer
A split
In timethought

Not made to but a-live

You know?
I know.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JpOIZM7dC0o?rel=0&w=480&h=360]


there’s a life
somewhere in there
a past tense of life
a life lived in albums

there was a time when we could just tuck them away. the pictures.
forget about them, their colors, their scent, their laughs.
just stick them in plastic pages.
never look at them again.
easy to forget.

lies! memories are as vivid as a damp print.

I don’t want to click, don’t want to like anymore. I don’t want to play, to pretend, to go through, to please, to ease. to laugh when it’s appropriate, shut up when it’s expected.

today I’ll do it. that’s what I always say, today. and then I forget why.

I wanted more meaning, more structure
a form of some kind to help me heal
I was thinking, the pyramid kind
that always draws the eye
but I’m not that kind
of architect


Once again. All changes saved.

Words we see, we read, and do not think twice about. Saved. The changes were saved.

Saved implies assimilated, accepted, approved of. Thought about. Considered and agreed upon. Saved. I can safely close this, as it is saved.

There are no more words worth saving.

Safely close this. Move on.

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

– Charles Bukowski

These I Singing in Spring

These I singing in spring collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,
Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there,
pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and
partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I
think where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a
great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,
Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull’d off a live-oak in
Florida as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again
never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this
calamus-root shall,
Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,
And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,
These I compass’d around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable
of loving.

-Walt Whitman

The well for dummies

C’est surement qu’on se dit que c’est mieux que rien. Qu’on vaut juste ça, et pas plus. Parce que dans des moments comme ça, on se dit, comment mesurer notre valeur autrement qu’avec le regard des autres? Le regard, les égards. Le respect qu’il faut gagner à chaque jour, sans quoi, arriver avec un déficit face au jour nous met devant une côte d’autant plus insurmontable qu’on n’était même pas supposé sortir de la maison cette journée là. La tête entre les mains, les papiers épars, la lumière du répondeur qui clignote, les courriels sans réponses, les courriels, les courriels, l

Et puis après trois Robax Platine plus rien nous importe. Ou le curieux mélange orange framboise rhum. La migraine du matin partie. L’air bête des 20 personnes à qui on a souri tenu la porte retenu l’ascenseur dit merci salutbonjourpardonexcusez-moidésolée

Invisible parce qu’ignorée, même pas juste ordinaire. C’est peut-être la mèche de cheveux blancs les 15 ans de plus les 30 livres de plus les rides de plus. Avec tous ces plus comment ne pas être assez? Comment autant d’amour ne pourrait pas soulager, réconforter, guérir, ressusciter? Comment tout ce qui sort de ces yeux, en direct des explosions atomiques enclenchées par le parfum de ta peau ne pourrait pas convaincre que tout est possible, tout est bien, tout est bon dans ce regard je voudrais y vivre et mourir et me faire aimer comme ça sans jamais que ça s’arrête c’est ça la vie éternelle.

Il y a un puits et on y puise sans cesse. Je n’ai pas peur qu’il se vide. J’ai peur qu’il n’y ait pas de fond.

Switch the night

Isn’t this what you wanted? Weren’t you on the path to grab the prize, the cup, the fucking Holy Grail of contentment?

To slowly swim through hazy mornings and bloom in the bright nights where freedom embraces selective memory.

Imbalance only lightened your step  as you covered your wavering with invisible music.

Oh but to get that rush back, when your hair stuck to the brick wall as everything disapeared but the light reflecting on your belt buckle, the light under which you got hooked to the fire lit by his fingers.

As the haze solidifies, as the nights darken, the music you realize was your own heart beating to a symphony of panic.

The path, as always, is there only to support your steps, never to guide them.

As you thread on I want you to remember. You can still dance, you can still catch fire.

I want to remember.

The ground covered

C’était le dernier froid. La dernière journée trop emmitouflée. Je laisse les couches tomber, éparses, je les laisse me quitter sans un mot, sans un bruit. Je peux imaginer que l’air soulevé lancerait un cri s’il le pouvait. Que de tremblements dans l’atterissage forcé d’une cape en mal d’héro. Ou d’héroine.

Il y aura, puisque le passé ne conjugue plus mes matins, il y aura.

Non je ne me tais pas.

I just need to have some fun, remember? That’s what you said.

There was a little fuck you in my step, there was a little fuck you in my grin.

And it all made sad sense.

How weight can be worn in so many different ways.

Layers upon layers, the ground covered and still I walk, because that’s all I am built to do.

Fuck baby steps. I’m walking in strides.

I’m walking, I’m walking, I’m back.

Down the stairs

Another one another one another one

I can’t


Unless mine is broken as well

Unless mine is

Not involved

Nothing to recover from

But a sweet a warm a loving

Moment embrace more never to be

The rush of the stumble

Has no equal


“Break me” she said.  “Break me, break me. And when it’s done, when it’s all over, you can put the pieces back together however you want to.”

But like a jigsaw puzzle, her pieces were meant to only fit one way.

“You can make me, invent me, create me. I’ll belong to you and only you. You’ll hold the secret. My cracks, my flaws only reminders that I was born from your hands.”

Damaged goods, that’s how I saw it. Unfortunately, I had already broken her. Her cracks and flaws only reminders of what she was made of.

Worth breaking.