paris

i am today.
this ancient proud building on a busy street.
basking in its past. since a century perhaps.
peaceful orange almost.
you. i guess. could be
that pair of tacky red sunglasses
put on by a disinterested beautiful blonde
with white hair and blue eyes busy crossing the busy street
looking the other way.
neither of us knows the other,
only the orange red blue white black
and the busy street.

"what else ?", she said.
after we had discussed the day's weather.
and i didn't know what to say.

Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame - Bukowski

some dogs who sleep at night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you've been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here's a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about. 

Charles Bukowski

love the way you lie.

wherever you are
rest assured. be happy.
the world is in its place.
people, though they drink.
are sleeping well.
the birds. though afraid.
are flying high. singing good.
the sea. although dirty.
is still magnanimous. enough.
the day. meaningless more and more.
is interesting enough. interested rather.
and i. though reluctant.
am still holding up.
so,
wherever you are
rest assured. be happy.
the world is in its place.
people, though they drink.
are sleeping well.

0134.0508.

i am tired of poetry. rudderless.

or maybe she is tired of me.

its not those sailing times anymore.

we have to find time. out of our busy schedules. 

to see each other. yes. she too is busy. 

finding better, suaver prospects. to endorse.
maybe the ones a little less indifferent.

i too have turned reluctant. 

learning to let go of old encumbrances.

its not forgetting you know. just letting go.

knowing that nothing lasts forever.

perhaps.

Poetry again

Pablo's reply. 


Poetry is good for laughter and forgetting
It's an indecipherable way of communicating
And let's you say all you want to
Without the burden of having to say anything at all

Poetry is good songs without tune
And bad memories turned into good
It's an attempt to not understand the world at all
And yet, interpret it as you will

slowness

these days. i walk out of myself.
and away from him. i stand by the door and watch.
what he has become. the places he goes.
the people he sees. the things he says.
i don't pity him. he is not helpless.
neither do i applaud him. he is not great.
i am indifferent. i leave him to what he is.
as if i don't care. as if he is not me.