“Air And Light And Time And Space”

By Charles Bukowski

”– you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create.”

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

– Charles Bukowski

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“Treasure Hunter”

“Treasure Hunter”

Ramona found the hammer wrapped in a wrinkled brown paper bag at the bottom of the trunk. In fact, it turned out to be the only item she found worth keeping. She prided herself on her current streak of yard sale luck. She’d visited one hundred and seventeen junkies so far, and she had come away as a champ each time. Ramona had bloodhound DNA in her, and a penchant for sniffing out the hidden gems and undervalued items. She especially loved the thrill of plunging into dust laden boxes in poorly lit basements. The dust would rise and disperse when she tipped each lid. Her left arm ended in a metal Maglite and her right arm the epitome of kinetic energy. She would enter the zone when on a search at a junkie. She acknowledged none of the others present. She glided through upturned boxsprings and stacks of magazines, past stagnant furnaces and land mine bowling ball bags; all for the claim. Ramona had made one hundred and seventeen claims so far. She wouldn’t, in fact, never allowed another to make a play for a claim. Once she sensed it, she rushed to it, boxed out her perimeter, and dove deep into whatever obscured the treasure within.There was something of a spelunker in her. Her friend Ben liked to tease her about the level of passion she held for estate sales. He enjoyed watching her as the door opened at the sale. Her cheeks would become crimson suns, and the creases of her brow would appear when he chided her for being so damned aggressive at the outset. She paid him no mind after his initial remarks, but instead drew within and remained deliberate and thorough in her movement at all times. Ramona was known around the circuit, and not well liked. Others would shake their heads and roll their eyes as they watched her cavort through a junkie. As much as they disliked her, there was a certain respect of her art. She seemed to touch each and every item and none at all. Ramona didn’t care what they thought. She was focused and the only way she could find what she was looking for was to be the first to it. She was quite assured that her method of searching for treasure was the best. In truth, who could argue with her results. She’s been able to successfully find the rarest and most expensive items at each junkie. It was often remarked about how well she could negotiate the prices she would pay for her finds. Betsy Barnes told Carol Marx that Ramona had to be a witch; that she used mind control, or could read the minds of others. That had to be the only way she would be able to get away with paying so little for what was clearly worth so much. However, there was no way that Ramona could anticipate the true price she would pay for the hammer she had just found. It seemed at first glance like a traditional hammer, but there was something odd yet magical about it. Through further examination she realized that the hammer felt heavier in her hand than any other hammer she had ever held. This was weird because it wasn’t that big. It was actually quite normal, just a bit worn. She did notice a grace in its movement as she handled it further, that belied the heaviness she had felt. The most telling characteristic of the hammer was its gravity. Ramona was pulled into it immediately, and she knew she would never leave that basement without it. She thought for a quick moment about how she would approach the owner to buy it. Then she remembered the bowling ball on the floor near the boxspring. She was going to bowl a strike on this junkie, she knew how she was going to liberate the hammer from the bag, from the trunk, from this basement. Ramona had found her one hundred and eighteenth claim.

“Grand Design Valentine”

“Grand Design Valentine”

My life to give is not too much.
When in the land of love I trudge.
Two years or ten who is to say?
Love slips from my firm grasp each day.
One thing I know without a doubt,
Must find true love or go without.
Hope needs to live in head and heart,
For chance and luck to do their part
While on the path with love in mind
It soon will show for me to find.

“My Anger Is Complete”

“My Anger Is Complete”

My anger is complete.
Pushing the envelope of containment.
I need to burst forth.
Liberation!

Emotional outbreaks are hard to contain.
Is there a Center for Rage Control?
Do men in suits come to stop the spread?
Or do others hope that the anger eats itself?

I stubbed my toe.
The rent is due.
The baby’s crying.
Too much!

Insurmountable waves of stress and uncertainty
Creep rhythmically up my spine.
Only to find a harbor for repose
Somewhere in the vast land of doubt that resides in my skull.
A universe in my head.
Expanding.
Commanding.
Demanding.
Systems crash.
Back to square one.
This wall that my back‘s against is hard.
Isolated from relief.
Coming undone again.
Self-loathing champion.
No one knows the trouble I’ve seen.
Not even the god of regret.

I stubbed my toe.
The rent is due.
The baby’s crying.
Too much!

Blood boiling.
Sharp points of light against my closed lids.
If I could smash your face,
I know a priest who would forgive the sin.
That’s if I were truly repentant.
But I’m not really, of course.

Can’t you see that the light is green?
I can from where I’m stuck behind you.
Move!
Foul soul, impeding progress.
Annoyance of the community.
Free us all from your interference.
Just disappear.
Turn right.

I stubbed my toe.
The rent is due.
The baby’s crying.
Too much!

“Vaccuum”

“Vaccuum”

“Vaccuum”

Fresh paper full of silence.
Never about or because, just perhaps.
Patterns emerge, ways unfold.
Taunting, teasing, goading.
Encouraging, forming, being.
A poet’s quantam, this blank page..
Thought before feeling, or feeling before thought?
Does the intellectual sojourner know the way?
She probably doesn’t know as much as she says she does.
Forgotten words are never thought, never written, never read, and never spoken.
Never loved.
Only the subconscious can account for all of these things.
But he never seems to be able to recall them when called upon.
The secrets are buried until provocation guides them up.
Words thought, words written, words read, words spoken.
Words remembered.
Words loved.
The indentations the pen makes on the blank page are quite lovely.