Sunday, October 30, 2005

Life continues on, and on, and on...

Okay, here I am sitting in this little room (and it’s a nice little room, don’t get me wrong – it has two tones of green and wicker window shades and, considering some of the rooms I’ve been in recently, it stands up pretty well, nonetheless…) tonight (singing: tonight, tonight, won’t be like any night!) tonight it feels a bit like a prison.

Well, a cubicle, anyway. It feels estrictive. I can hear the hum of the computer and the clack of the keys and, if I stop and listen very closely, I can almost here the sound of blood rushing through my ears (a dull little whoosh as the ol’ ticker pushes the red stuff around the track, yet again).

How many more hearbeats until I die, I wonder? But, of course, that is unknowable (at least until its too late… ha ha ha - death’s little joke on all of us: Death sits like an old fortune teller lady with a thick, rubbery lips, bad blonde hair and a ridiculously thick accent… blah blah blah and just as she reveals all, “Dee meaning of life eez… [pregnant pause]” BANG! KAPOW! A heart attack hits us like a ton of brick and we’re dead guys. Yeah! “America... fuck yeah!”

Monday, October 24, 2005

Beginnings are such a delicate time...


Bukowski wrote about The Bluebird
Buried in his heart:
Anesthetized with alcohol,
Encrusted in cigarette's ash
And bound up in the tight bands of

In the solitude
Of the early morning hour
And the dim bulb swinging,

The bird slipped free,
And filled stained white walls
With song.

And, oh, how sweetly it sang.

But that was for him,

Now and then,

I hear a faint and tinny warbling
(Like radio waves
In teeth's fillings)
Or the tinny tinkling of little bells

And something loosens in my chest
And stirs.

And, oh, how sweetly it stirs.