I met a man who spoke the truth.
He did not apologize.
He did not explain.
And he did not call 
Upon another
To support his claims.
It was not until that day
That I heard the truth
You'll say I knew 
And I suppose you're right
But how is a man
To see the needle 
For the haystack?

I fear that now 
I am spoiled to the chaff.
His words reached back 
Like a magnet
To find truth there
The long while shining
And now I see it everywhere.
It's with me in the grocery store 
And at the office
It walks beside me
Where the path 
Leads beside the river
And it haunts me 
Where before I slumbered,
Blissfully oblivious to all
But that which served 
My keenest fancies.

I stumble through now
​As best I can
And pretend
That I still care for caviar 
And that it matters 
Whether I get the promotion.
But my resolve weakens
And I fear that soon
I will not be able 
To keep up appearances
For though lost 
To that which served me,
I am found by the very thing
Which eluded me so long.
Or was it I that eluded it?
God only knows.

It's lonely.

That, I did not expect.
At least so far it is.
But I can sense
A host of others waiting,
Longing also,
For the family promised 
To those whose lives
Are sacrificed
Upon the alter of Truth.
I am young to the alter
Still I burn there slowly.

And there you have it.
It turns out 
That the poets' pledge is verified
By another to join their ranks - 
One more fool
Whose life is wasted (if you must)
Upon the premise 
That unseen things are paramount,
That they are real 
Though hidden behind unnumbered facades
Not the least of which 
Being cowardly people
Who fear to speak the truth unaided.
Thank God for the man
Who dared to say that thing 
Which I always knew
But could not see 
For the multitude of words.

There you are
Reading this 
Like peeping Toms.
Intruders.
Prowling round my soul.
Pulling away the curtains,
Tearing down the walls,
Storming the gate.
And yet it was I 
That let you in.
Opening wide my chest
To wrap you up,
Blessed ogler.  
Sacred intruder.
Hallowed guest.
Here - bear away my finest.
Take the candle sticks as well.
Leave me barren 
But for the sweet perfume
Of one who wanted, prized my finest.
Two threads of a tapestry
Touching Once
But Eternally knit into the same cloth we are.
For in the spoils
You bear away the sacred cup
From which I drink.
Can you bear to drink
From wells of sorrow?
Can you dip the cup 
Deep into the cauldron
Where boils like acid
The scourge and the affliction,
And then fly away like the bluebird
Deep, Deep into the sacred wood,
Far from human tracks,
Where shadows deepen,
Like portals to the mystic plane?
Beware the spoils
Of men who've lost their fear of death.
Beware the spoils 
Of him who courts the thief.
For if he who prizes more your soul
Than all his richest treasures
Suffers you to carry off his valuables
Do not be surprised 
When that same spirit 
Fills your own house
And makes it his own.
Yours and his of course.
But his none the less.
And there you are 
Reading this poem
Like peeping Toms?
No.
Like next of kin.
Here - pull up a chair.
Sit by my fire.
Drink deep the cup
Warm and sweet.
There now.
That's right.
Off to sleep.
Sleep well my child.
The bitter gourd
Will wait for another day.
But tonight we dwell safely here.
Deep, Deep within my heart.
Where none can hurt you.
Stay a season if you must
Or a year 
Or a life time
From we are of the same cloth,
Two threads of a tapestry,
Touching Once
But eternally knit,
You and I.

I will win
Because I will suffer
Longer than you.
But there is no ill will 
In the winning,
Nor shame in love's loosing
When loss is gain.

Beat away! My chest
Longs for your fists
Clinched tight.

Every ocean needs a shore or crag
To beat against, 
And I have nothing else 
More pressing.

Beat away!
Beat away! My breast
Longs for your fists
Clinched tight.

Till the day
The day when they've 
Worn themselves out in beating.
And you fall like the meteor
Down, down...
And crash upon my breast in defeat.

Beat away!
Beat away! My breast
Longs for your fists 
Clinched tight.

There is no ill will
In the winning,
Nor shame in love's loosing
​When loss is gain.

It is too early to spin a poem.
Too early to know whether it is good or bad.
Too early to care.

It's here, I suppose,
That I wish I were something more
Than a poet.
Something useful or brave.
Something efficient perhaps,
Or strong and powerful.
Like one of those
That stand at the helm of industry.
Dear God - save me from that!
But then at least, 
I could pretend that I was wanted.
Then I would stand with my head erect
And beguile myself into believing
That I am respected
For something more than
What they use me for.
Then, I would feign that my friends 
Were friends forever.
And pretend that they loved me
For something more than my success.
We'd roam the golf courses
Discussing things of no import.
My home and office would be full 
Of well wishers
And I'd spend my money
On useless gifts
Knowing all the while
That they'd ruin them in the end.
But we'd play the bluff.
And have a great time of it
While it lasted.

One thing for sure,
I would not sit at five thirty in the morning
Wondering at the silence,
Letting it move upon and around me
Like dark natives
Deciding the fate of their captive.
I wouldn't spend my days
Staring out upon an unseen world 
That looms like fairy goblins
And fretting all the while
Over those
Who don't believe in such things.

But I suppose 
That a man must be something.
And in the absence of all that
Which I might have made of myself,
Had I been strong or efficient or useful,
That I'd might as well say what can be said
While it can be said,
Be it good or bad.
And content myself
With the approval of the fairy folk.
Would to God 
That they would let me
Get to my breakfast!

Time...
There is enough of it
If you believe it so.
Sufficient is the day,
Remember?

Watch out!
The world clamors.
There are a thousand tomorrows
To be looked out for!

But really, there are not.
There is just today.
Just now 
In fact.

But if you don't
Scheme and plan
And fret and frown,
You'll surely die!
How they drone on!

There is only one way 
To deal with bullies:
If death it is
Then death it must be!
After all,  
What alternative is there?
To hurry 
Is a kind of death:
To die to the only thing 
We really are -
Whatever that is.
And whatever it is,
It's now.
And if perceived at all,
It can only be perceived
In the space 
Just between nothing 
And all that we are not.
Can you find it?
Just there.
Just now.

Let the world
Fly away 
To the castles 
They build
Between the dark brown 
Earthy now
And all the light blue
Empty dreams
Of tomorrows
That will never come.

But let me die 
To all that is not now
Bury me deep
In the soil of today.
And remember when I'm gone...
That there is time
And plenty of it.
If you only believe
​That it is so.

Charles Bukowski
What a perfectly wicked man.
Perfectly wicked!
Perfectly wretched!
But truly, honestly so.

Give me one man 
Who is what he is,
And nothing more pretended.

You know that you secretly
Hang upon his poems.
Because they are real.
You steal away 
When you believe 
That no-one is watching.
And it is you we see
Cowering.  
Hunched over.
Hanging upon:

"If it doesn't come bursting out of you...
Don't do it!"

But then of a Sabbath
You dress in your Sundays .
And sit at the feet 
Of your whited sepulchers.
You pretend 
That you believe 
The polished poison
That drips 
Like Calamine Lotion 
Into your itching, bleeding ears.
Tell us lies, you say.
Tickle us with your forked tongues
And make us believe 
That you are truly good,
That one can be good.
You know that it is lies
But you clamor:
Tell us again
How you slew the dragon.
Tell us how you ever 
And ever 
Were and are
All that we hoped you to be.
We know it is lies,
but tell us again
so that we too,
May one day
Worship at our own feet.

Charles Bukowski...
Spin us a poem 
From the dirty.
Wretched.
Street that you are.
Only there do we worship
The thing that is real
The thing that is best
As it is - No more.

We too
Are wretched
But are loath to admit.
Aspiring hypocrites, 
We sit huddled round
To hear...
The Truth.
Not the Truth
Of what man believes,
But The Truth 
Of what
We really are:
Just wicked.
Wretched.
Miserable men.
Like good old Charles Bukowski.