As the requests for issue no.1 have gone up in the sky – we have received undemanded contributions for a possible sequel / issue no.2 at the same time. So we’ve decided today to be open for submissions again. Mind you: This is about, around and related to Charles /Hank Bukowski only.Get in touch at:…
open for submissions
if only Brenda could rewind her time three years
shuffling slowly down Agatha street quiet only pigeons coo
i follow the trail of baby feathers-pretending to be sane
just to keep an eye on her
it is reached the daily destination
one of the many resting places
along the coastal California lie
her heels cut dry bond with the pavement
lips crusted knees bent soul MIA
i pull the wool over my own eyes
turn and walk away from her again
who might this stranger be
he stares into my eyes
i’m as sure as one day i will die
that i will never meet him in the flesh
there see in the stillness
Of his shot all of the grays blacks and whites
the wrinkles on his face
i imagine hold a code of his life in microcosm
just for me to read the glance it tells tales
of other places so far away that those skies are of an undiscovered blue
and his smile it fills me with mooshiness inside
because i feel the fibers of his soul
rough on the surface but softer as you deeper go
and when he touches a petal or waves or strums a cord
i too can touch wave and strum internally
is that what it means to live
spider’s web on the corner
the dust and sunlight dance
a waltz
cracks in my bones books on my shelves chipped polish on my nails
the spider has gone to another land and i wonder if she was a pilgrim looking for God as well
not in the mood for anything to eat i sit and watch my cat sneak around the tables
silence in my heart and in the windows purple orange skies
no particular need for any promise i’m quite grown up
and think beyond those silly things
but every now and then the feeling flutters like a moth outside his lantern how did time
escape from me
ah yes a broken glass
in the midst of my heart
raggaeton and Coronavirus-19 blues
seriously woke adverts from podcast sleuths
the AG and the Russia hoax
MSNBC squealin’
through the crumbling ozone
exclusive: thee gospel truth
time doesn’t really matter?
eight hundred and seventy-six days gulped Manafort
Prius glide bike lanes wide
out-brake light-mine i’m from LA
bus lights
frozen on Mulholland Drive
Ferrari high beams with movie directors’ wives
Tupac karaoking in the car
dope beats Dre interjectin’ more more more
memories of seven fo
and the deep state goody two shoes ruse begins
110 N 110 South 360 degrees
the president in forced space
behind JFK’s refurbished desk
listening to no one but Fox and Friends
vice president boxing the Fauci and Birx bunch
“Let us love as Jesus has {LOVED?}us.”
the archbishop says
yo yo yo!?! does that mean we’re all dead…
gentrification gentrification
where’s that old voucher to my section-8
extension the PJ’s are not communes like Marx’s mandate
meth toad croaks in the trailer park door instead
sweaty poisons seeping into
the young collective American soul
finest tit slash bleach job i ever did see
skyscraper floor path paved with our correctly approved recepticled trash
while our slogan puffed chests
at the pride we have at the graves we have filled
behind dumpsters of the riche through their guerilla
drills
as we parade around the good done deeds
the mayor walks those very grounds were 30 years ago
the epidemic shunned back then
but walked for now
took most of my loves forever due to their failure to conform
now today in my home town America-LA country broken down to her
DNA
yes Cabal we are openly and freely international with an
admiration for cowboys rudeboys and all the girls in the
world
coexisting vegan meat eater howlers in the night
blues and reds never got us right
media giants you’re wrong as fuck about us
we the people of the Westside coast
Chuck wearers Mariachi trumpets duo with Miles
kung fu swinging farmers markets our neighborhoods by far were never anything ‘Little’
Hogs ride wild all the Angels of this Nation
want to say:
America have a very happy birthday
to the sweatshop workers who get paid a dime
and to the Chili Peppers the music makers of this bad ass LA house
let us not forget the discarded freedom fighters who stand in the soup lines
all the kids made from God’s rainbow flag of color
and the school babies hanging out at Food 4 Less selling candy bars for a dollar
to Kim Soo at my favorite barbecue
and of course Hadib where i used to buy my tokes
and Dona Adelita at the corner with her folks
LaTifah and Darryl who teach me about the Sheppard JC
AJ from the Lakota Nation a Captain America
comic book fiend
and all of my liberal left hook right wing swing coffee house
junkies
let the lights tonight be strong and free
reflecting from Dodger stadium to the ferociously tame
surface of the Silver lake man made designer reservoir
your chest swells and collapses in slow motion
i miss watching the hairs curled up tight in salt and pepper rosettes
you didn’t love me i was too young but on cold lonely nights you couldn’t stay away from my womanly thighs
i drank alone on the floor cursing the day i was born then when the sun took her post
i walked through my door having to face the world again
why so tough kid cry or something
i’m ok man don’t trip
your friend overdosed in the hall by the curtained room
are you telling her folks or who
we called your dad isn’t he coming
no he said
do you want to go to the hospital your nose is bleeding
it does that when i hurt
oh did you fall down
no i hurt for my friend growing up even my toys were mechanical
i like to wear the black t shirts like Lou Reed wore
and my eyelashes full of black goop eyeliner slapped on crooked
the kids they talk of Spotify but they’ve never felt the living beat of playing a Fender Jazz bass guitar im just a girl but not really just uh girl there’s kinda a lot of intersectionality my heart she beats in tiny bits when we see your smile and when i bathe i hear Sweet Jane whispering to me under water and on some nights my eyes can’t sleep we chew our nails and tap our feet the holes on my black jean’s get wider i think my feet are kinda big as i bounce twinkling stars off the tips of my toes from the blue sill of my bedroom window but then the sounds of laughter travels from some neighbor’s t.v. reminding me of the possibility that i might just order botox shots tomorrow
he ran fast breath short dry throat up the hill where she had said she would love him forever when he got there and searched the air he found no mystic moon he knelt under the weight of his sorrow
