No Make Believe

Makes little difference to me, the lifting wind that brushes the sun darken oak leaves up. The sylvan world moves from dark to light in shifting shades of green-

Advertisements

Makes little difference to me, the lifting wind that brushes the sun darken oak leaves up. The sylvan world moves from dark to light in shifting shades of green-

Means little to me.

I care not for the song of the lark or the longing flight of the cardinal for his mate. The scarlet dark against the shifting green all directed by who knows what; so why care for the cause of a hidden effect?

I could care less.

And I do not mind the boom of guns nor the crack of the whip that separates me from those I should love. What does their life matter as I have been taught that only my life should revolve my world?

What matters the words written that saves souls?

I think little of peace or what contentment is and soon all theses distractions I mention will falter due to lack of attention.

How could the world continue to spin without my permission?. Oh, and by the way, I most certainly don’t believe in evil.

 

Bukowski In Church

She couldn’t stand him and was fascinated, so pretended he wasn’t real

and pondered at the draw of the bar stool and why he insisted on tipping his hat to her.

He drank the song he sang, then sang the drink away.

He was beautiful in the evening and wilted in the morning,

not remembering why he was still standing, still awake.

Life is like that some say – not he – he preferred to drink and sing and not philosophize his life away.

He kept a book of Bukowski by his bed and he thought of giving his copy to her whenever she walked by him

each morning

down town.

She couldn’t stand him and was fascinated, so pretended he wasn’t real

and pondered at the draw of the bar stool and why he insisted on tipping his hat to her.

Upon the church pew she would pray in a wandering, bewildered sort of way.

How do you pray for someone who does not want the full light of day?

Seems happiest with loud music and singing at the top of his voice.

She loved the quiet of her house,

the work of hands upon her quilt – loud anything was alien and obtuse.

How indeed would the choir seem with him shouting out the sacred hymns of the Almighty?

— no she wasn’t being sarcastic

she pondered his supposed presence within the sanctuary,

praying with true honesty that he wasn’t real,

then repented in that steepled, holy place.

So then she prayed he’d find his salvation in the rock band churches down the street.

Each morning she would walk down the avenue to volunteer at the kitchen for men such as he.

He was sincere, though she did not believe him,

“Good morning dear lady, at last we meet.”