out in the day
squinting eyes
and thick heat
on naked necks
clouds in the far
dark and wet
filling the expanse
with its journey
soon they meet
a cool rush of air
rumbles and ozone
take relief in each other
low rumbles
and lines of quick light
wet and hot
humid and raining
quiet love
draped in deep sighs
and cigarette smoke
eyeglasses and
cold coffee
long days in bed
newspaper on the floor
ashtray full
baggy shorts
on the floor
calm brain
no need for thought
just breathing
and loving
holding onto the sheets
talking in pauses
between long drags
and sips
white cotton
worn like a uniform
the memories flow
and fill the room
billowing and stinging
then fading into
nothing
the red flows
out of slits in
carefully manuvered
movement
and slices
the release
rushes up from
toes and fingers
feeling the loss
instantly
against the grain
solid lines
inside frail skin
leaning against
cold white
wet and afraid
but feeling the
calm and end
seeing less
and taking nothing
stones feel
red hot
silent
bottoms of
pink toes and
hard heels
bounce.
we took
pleasure in
the tower
of wet
refreshed
in white cotton
and store bought
uniform,
we darted
and jumped-
the red man
spewing
from above.
shiny hair,
matted locks
on backs,
swollen eyes
and out of breath.
we were the same.
children
loving the moment
till the light dimmed
and our teeth
chattered
in the summer
evening heat.
So I have started reading Charles Bukowski. I have also started reading Pablo Neruda. I knew that they were influential writers of the 20th century, but did not know who they really were until I started reading. As dissimilar as they first appear to be, their emotions parallel. So, if I got any of this wrong, would someone tell me? I’m new to the whole “biography of poets I hardly know” thing.
Bukowski (Heinrich Karl Bukowski/Henry Charles Bukowski) was born in Germany to a reportedly abusive father. He went to college out of high school for two years. At 24 he was published, and then again two years later. He stopped writing for almost a decade, disenchanted with the publishing process. When he DID write, he wrote about Los Angeles. He said, “You live in a town all your life, and you get to know every street-corner. You’ve got the layout of the whole land. You have a picture of where you are. … Since I was raised in L.A., I’ve always had the geographical and spiritual feeling of being here. I’ve had time to learn this city. I can’t see any other place than L.A.”
From what I’ve read so far, there’s some recurring themes… roses, beer, bums, women, sex, death… he seemed very attached to the life. He seemed very depressed and unhappy.
Neruda (Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto) was born in Chile. His father didn’t approve of his writing, but received encouragement from others. By the time he was 16, he adopted his pseudonym. Neruda took his pen name from Czech writer and poet Jan Neruda. He later changed it to his legal name in 1946. He was a writer and communist politician.
Neruda writes mostly in a romantic, high emotional way. However, like most poets, he also has his dark moments. He was often forced to leave his family, friends, and home because of his beliefs. That sadness was also reflected in his works.
His poems range from amazing love poems, political views, historic poems, to odes to common objects. He has been called one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century.
awkward feet
stinging in worn
shoes
drenched with mud
shame and sweat
stabs in chest
hurt
from the cold air
tired hands
shaking in the dark
trembling
searching
found her
silent, cold
blue and
alone
her chest
is still
her breasts
do not heave
he would gaze
from afar
as she curved
and softened
he felt her
marble cold face
touched the skin
he longed for
took her innocence
she never lost
when red love coursed
in her thighs
in the dead blue night
the solid hard still cold
the steps are small
darting and weaving
for sure footing
to find the journey end
feet entwined
stumbled
reaching for
familiar and exquisite
i find her
her tear soaked
chin
her warm chest
fumbled hands
know the skin
that has never touched his
it is calm
serene
pure
and still he cries
not hearing her voice
but feeling her words
in the still warm comfort.
I’m told that life is full of sacrifice. The small bit of optimism in me wonders why it must be that way. Why do we give up our dreams… why do we put the wishes of our youth away? We grow up and we do what needs to be done. We lose those dreams for staunch resolution. Compromise and negotiation. Why are we conditioned to do what’s “needed” instead of what we want?
When we are children we have all of this wonderment. Naivety. Innocence. We want to be firefighters, astronauts, doctors, and cowboys. It’s so very easy to say. As kids, we just want it to happen. We don’t think of the training involved. We don’t consider what the starting salary would be, or how the profit sharing plan works. Children just want to wear the outfit and play the part.
My easy answer to life is to let people have the careers that make them happy. We’d all be cowboys, rock stars, and famous athletes instead of construction workers, grocery store managers, and bus drivers. We’d all sleep in as late as we wanted, ate what we wanted, and went to work when we were damn good and ready. But I know this is all too simple. We need people to build our homes, stock the shelves, and drive us downtown.
I’ve always wished that I could have a career that I loved. That I could come home and say,”What a great day! I finished my book and started another painting!”
But this is life. No matter how we try to have that perfect job, sometimes you do what is needed. Sometimes you tell yourself,”I’ll start this job, and I can write my book on the weekend… and I will be noticed and published and famous.”
I for one am not going to give up on my dreams. I have always been a daydreamer. I have always been a famous actor, artist, musician, writer, speaker, and problem solver. I deserve to be one of the few that when asked what I do for a living, I can straighten my neck, toss my shoulders back, and say,”What I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid.”
J-
I woke up this morning to snow. Well… fluffy ice. You’d think that we as Texans would be used to the most unusual weather. 80 degree days in December. Thunderstorms in August. Snow in April. But of course we still point and take video of it as if it’s Bigfoot. It didn’t stick, and it stopped and started all day. If it had been December, we’d have a glossy sheet of white all over the lawn. Being April, it just melted as soon as it hit the patio.
Snow is great. Snow is great in Texas. It’s like the aunt that comes to visit, gives you $50, and leaves. Nice to see- a fun surprise, and then you forget it ever happened. Good ol’ Texas.
That’s about all I did today. Oh, and I’m forever working on a drawing. More to come probably.
j-