Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Three Oddest WordS

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold.

- Wislawa Szymborska 

death and tacos by Nathanial Whittemore

Waiting in line at a taco stand for my number to be called
I started talking to a six-year-old kid kicking his little foot against
A curb and waiting for his dad to come out of the bathroom.
                And he said, “Why do you cough so much?”
                And I said, “Because I have cancer.”
                And he said, “Bummer.”
                And I said, “Yep.”
                And he said, “Does it hurt?”
                And I said, “Only when I breathe.”
                And he said, “Why don’t you hold your breath?”
And I puffed out my cheeks like Louis Armstrong and
Let him see it and held it for as long as I could
Before exploding into a hacking eruption of
Stupid sounds and saliva.
                And he laughed.
                And I coughed and laughed.
                And he said, “Feel better?”
                And I said, “A bit.”
And I showed him how much better with my
Thumb and index finger. And pointed at a green thread
of mucous that had dribbled out onto my chin
                He said, “Gross.” And wiping it off
                I said, “Yep.”
                And he said, “My granddaddy had cancer before he died on the hospital.”
                And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
                And he said, “Yeah on the hospital.”
                And I said, “Oh, yeah?”
                And he said, “He used to give me candy all of the times I ever saw him.”
                And I said, “Sorry kid, I don’t have any candy.”
                And, deflated, he said, “Are you gonna die on the hospital?”
                And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
                And he said, “Yea, are you gonna die on the hospital?”
                And I said, “Probably.”
                And he said, “OK.”
And, upon giving that gracious consent, the boy’s dad came out and
The boy said, “Well, bye!” And I said, “See ya.”
And he ran off.
And, for a while, between the two of us,
Dying became so very ordinary, like candy or tacos or semantics,
And death itself suddenly just this obnoxious third-wheel
A pitiful nuisance with nothing better to do with his time
Than to tag along with me and this six-year-old kid.
And I sat smiling in the sun and imagining death at the moment,
A sad sack of lonely-self slumped somewhere in the distance,
As I waited for my number to come up.

there is a place in the heart that

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than
ever

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and

we will wait
and
wait

in that space.”

― Charles Bukowski

How to Greet Death by Gabriel Gadfly

Greet death
with your hands in your pockets,
slouched back, cool,
collected, and confident.
Wear a hint of a grin
and a dash of cologne.
Say What took you so long?
Say You’re behind the times, man.
Say Dead is the new black.
Coffin is the new condo.
Pallor is the new tan.
La vida muerta.

Greet death
with a fistful of black-eyed susans,
butterflies in your stomach,
and two tickets to tomorrow’s sunrise.
Wear your father’s cufflinks
and your mother’s wedding ring.
Say I brought these for you, babe.
Say Kiss me, kiss me.
Say But wait until the sun comes up.
Just until daybreak.
I want to show you something.
Hasta la muerte, te amo.

Greet death
with a knife at your own neck,
chin up, throat bared,
cardiac in overdrive.
Wear nothing.
Wear nothing.
Say Bring it on motherfucker!
Say Only on my terms.
Say nothing
and open your throat.
and bleed to completion.
El final, el final, el final.

Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road? by Robert Hershon

Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge

My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?

What he doesn't know
is that when we're walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand

I could say this a thousand times

Wanna cuppa coffee?

"I'd like you more, then."

I tried to imagine
that the hills were priests in
long green robes, joining hands in prayer but

it turned out they were just hills.

I tried to imagine that
your yellowthroat was some sort of
calling, the up and down a    holiness
rejoicing

it turns out, it was a song your mother used to sing
holy to you, but to me it was
just a song

I tried to imagine
there was a hand holding mine, and
I was right - it was

the left holding
the right.

little stories throughout the day, those
are the only ones I know how to end, a
moment, a feeling,  bristling tiny experiences but
no idea as to how the year will end, the month or
even today.

one day is almost as vast to me as a year is to
those well-versed in endings and outcomes.

so little, I know
so little.

But where am I going to go? What am I going to do?

Anywhere, anything.

Selfie by Steven Hutchison

Stand close to me
I want to remember us
right here
right now
in that dress you’re wearing
in this light
or with a filter
ya, probably with a filter
we will immortalize this moment
in digital eternity
put ourselves in the back pockets
of all our friends
let them see us
we will become stars tonight
and though the skies are full these days
of lite-brite impersonations
I’m certain we will burn into forevers
I haven’t really noticed where we are
let the world fit itself into the top two corners
of our rectangular existence
like it matters anyway
I need to remember us
tomorrow you won’t be here
we won’t be here
wherever here happens to be
tomorrow I will hear myself again
with those lonely songs and cold hands
of an all-too-present reality
I need you to stand close to me
if I look back and see the world in between us
it will look too much like the truth I’m avoiding
tomorrow I will need to convince myself I’m living
and this will be my arm-length testament
there was a time and a place when we were smiling
pushed close together behind nostalgia inducing filters
if we can look convincing tonight
dress ourselves in starlight
block out the world behind us
maybe tomorrow I’ll believe it
shout your picture into my hollows
before the lonesome deepens
I need you in my back pocket
for those days my lonely soul gets wordy

drawn

"The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome indescribably magnificent world in itself. " - Henry Miller

myth: the constant ally

I like this drifting, out of focus

it's like I was tied to a post, never tried
to untie it, myself but

then your subtle hands
all over

and I was    thrust
outand

in all this
space, love ly

can just spin, slower and slow er
until I find (read: believe) that
I don't need to
find

anything
to be
free

 I just have to


be

I like when you wear red.
it puts fire back in your skin
a heat on your breathagain

Cuidado - tantas curvas y yo sin freno!

i want to know who your suicide notes are addressed to now by ari

in the swimming pool, my sister takes 

pictures of my feet ballet position,
back upright, arms on hips.
"make waves like this"
i make waves like this and she takes pictures of them. 
i float on my back under water,
three feet from above water and i try to recite poetry
i wrote a year ago 
i come up and still wonder if i'm able to hear anything but my bones cracking under there. 
it isnt long before i realize i can hold my breath longer than i could last week and 
i feel like i am seconds away from death. 

june 18th, 4 in the morning,
3,000 miles away the pills are being shipped out of her stomach and i know they've been back stroking through there for too long. 

(i get out of the pool and she tells me 
what's happened and where she's taking it from here)
i say i love her and i say it as more than a friend. 
i say it because i have to 
i say it because at one point, her suicide notes were addressed to me and i dont know who reads her new ones now.
i say it because nine months ago,
i made her breathe and only breathe and
i stayed awake while she slept on the other line.
i say it because i have been those pills in her gut but also i have been 
the days when she has been clean. 
i say i love you and i dont stop. 

i still feel like i'm under water.

The way we talk about talent, it makes it seem as if it were a consistent, driving force. Something restless and in a constant state of being. The few times I have been told I have it - talent - I doubted it's very existence. I feel I have been talented at different points in my life; I have done something exceptional, I have felt I'm doing it, whatever it is, right. To the fullest extent. But soon after I feel it wane and quiver and sometimes it is lost all together. But however much of a gift it is,or however many moments in which you reach one potential, there is always another and talent - ebbing and flowing, one moment a seemingly tangible thing, the next dissipated and unreachable - is never constant. It is another daily struggle. A worthy and admirable one, but a struggle nonetheless.

mama

I'm taller than you now - that's okay, I'll
perch my head on your shoulder like a bird, ruffle my
feathers in your warmth, share your
sunlight

some people may feel like home
but mama, you feel like the freshness in something new only to me.
an old side table, the perfect size, a goodwill find.
using a new word for the first time,
learning that you've been able to do something
extraordinary all your life, you just never knew
it was extraordinary because it felt
natural.

but to compare you to anything is an injustice.
you are a complete world in yourself.

we are, all of us, all the people that we have previously been.
we all reside in our future selves and
carry our past within us, though some carry more
than just the knowledge. Some tote it behind them - carry it to the top of that pyramid
until they realize the last pyramids were completed in roughly 1800 - 1700 BC,
and it's too late to find a new base to build on.

but mama, you somehow found a way to start building from the middle, out.
from the top, down.You found a bit of earth to dig out,
build around.

tailspin

I wish I could 

do a cartwheel, justso I could know 

what it feels like.    wish I could 

sing out loud   whenever 

just so I could let you know

I have more breath in me 

than these few 

words

"Stand up, come here."
"Well, jeez just order me around, why don't you."
"Yeah, well, you better get used to that."

"I mean, it's only a Twix, right?"

I seem to be in an annoyingly consistent state of periphescence.

wish I could push    when push is needed
keep a distance long enough and let the salt set
there is a bitter-
nesslike in the corners of my mouth
that I lick when you are too close,
your sweet becomes the air around me,
your sweet, dear

it is so much to
bear