Broken Toaster

You are not
A window pane
You are not
A broken toaster.
You are a human being
With imperfections,
Cracks and dents and
Fissures,
That make you
Perfect and whole.
You don’t need
Fixing.

[My inner Bukowski wrote this attempt at a poem at 3am a few nights ago.]

Butterfly

She crawled back into her cocoon,

wanting to forget her wish to be a butterfly,

to join her kind, flitting about without care, or pretense,

but the pain of escape had borne heavy on her young wings,

she withered, her wings shriveled for lack of flight,

the cocoon, in which she found comfort,

became her near-deadly embrace.

Her countenance melancholy, she watched

as her brothers and sisters streaked about her,

flashes in the sunlight,

their wings burdened with the same pain,

but bringing joy to others who watched,

not fixated on their own short lives,

only focused on giving

of themselves.

 

For they had realized what their depressed sister hadn’t;

life is lived in this infinitesimal moment,

every pain and every pleasure,

met with equanimity,

knowing right now is gone,

replaced by another now,

never-ending, the process.

The universe brings them into

and takes them out of existence,

always replaced, never erased,

sometimes understanding

the law of the universe: nothing destroyed,

everything crashing into everything,

and everything only as it should be.

 

They live short lives, compared to us,

and we live short lives compared to the universe;

yet we imagine our sorrows to be greater,

imagine our long existence doomed to pain and suffering,

not realizing our existence is

as unnecessary as a candle

gazing at the sun.

Boom

Stained hands, smoking paper, roll, lick, spark.

Like a waterfall, a calm washes over me,
a dullness in my mind, yet a sharpness of the senses,
lights, sounds, people, explosions of clarity,
time speeding up and slowing down,
alternating in its rhythm.

I inhale again, feeling the harshness in my throat,
yet, a smoothness as I let go the smoke;
with reverence I pass it around,
for one respects that which is given with love,
nature’s heart being generous with its beautiful bounty.

Grass – a word that does this magic herb little justice,
this potent, powerful substance, which gods approved of,
and ascetics use to gain insight,
to escape the trappings of the body;
who are we to refute that which is sacred?

As I ponder all this,
the joint nears its end,
Another hit,
a burning of the lips, it’s almost over;
time is serene,
let’s roll another one.

The Writing On The Wall

 

Read the writing on the wall,
Read what It says to you,
That life is grand but time is short,
To experience things anew.
On and on we live our days,
And everyday seems the same,
dwelling on the past and its miseries,
Who else but ourselves to blame.
And looking back on these days we’ll find,
That what we did was ‘fine’,
And regret the moment when we had the chance,
but didn’t cross that line.

The Ache

The pain fades away, only a distant memory of what was, remains,
in its place a dull throb, I need more,
pain is my salvation, without it, I can know no pleasure,
sugar is dust, wine is bittered,
song is deaf to my ears,
the rhythm of my body, fettered.
She is my mistress, fickle, teasing,
so much more she makes me want her,
to reach out, to feel alive with her caress, her sweet caress.
Enliven me to my very marrow, make me feel the essence of your soul,
the reason for this beautiful scar,
aching, yet tremendously fulfilling, that jagged welt.
Dedicated to Mitchelle, my inspiration.