because of Bukowski's birthday

life through the lens of a beer bottle

narrowing pain to a smaller focus

something shared in whatever form

the gutter takes, or the

hell that must be paid.

the book and verse of too much loss

ratified by the hammerstrike

of type written fingers

.

change

there is a shift of atmosphere,

an increase in nitrogen, something

unknowable to my bones.

an ache almost, a memory

of a breath caught or released,

an instinct missed.

the air already so thin between

us, a suffocation of footsteps,

my hands too close to your heart.

the blue deepens one loss at a time.

do blue eyes turn white when

there is no blood? leaving

only striated clouds to see through.

I keep writing blank verses in

this bible, filling the pages

with less.  Is the dream’s

absence who I am

.

firma

I have carved your name

into my hand. the mutability

of the knife’s destruction

is an impure silence, a

wisdom that knows what to take

and sometimes leaves enough.

I have defaced

my god, rewritten flesh

to accept the alignment of bone

and gristle, a massacre

of fingers to lie

down along the

spine of you receiving

your perfect symmetry.

.

why

why the fuck can't I have you

why is the blood in my veins

as meaningless as holy water

the sickle brings nothing

fingers plead, laid like pages

one atop the other, prayers

left blank, hymnals rancid

with cheap booze

all I want is to touch you

to know that the apocolypse of a single night

was more than a dream

.