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Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems
This is a collection of 175 previously unpublished works by Bukowski. It contains yarns about his childhood in the Depression and his early literary passions, his apprentice days as a hard-drinking, starving poetic aspirant, and his later years when he looks back at fate with defiance.
368 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 1997
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970 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
854 books29.9k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 57 reviews
November 14, 2015
I like Bukowski. I like his blunt honesty. I like how he manages to give a damn and not give a damn at the same time. I like how easy it is, how natural it feels. It's very human poetry. It isn't posed or faked, it isn't trying to drown itself in pity, misery or self-loathing. There's a feeling of tender detachment in it. Like he's looking back on it.
And he might well have been. I didn't know this was a selection of previously unpublished works until I was almost done reading it. "New Poems" might have given it away, but all poems are new at some point, so really, how would I know? Had I known I might not have bought it.
The thing about selections like this is that, well... some things were just never meant to be published.
The majority of the poems in this book are pretty good - but not great. Bukowski is very apt at making me see the world from a different perspective - one that is otherwise lost to me, and I love that. I love the style he has and the easy simplicity he employs.
However, we do hit some less fortunate selections. To be quite frank I have no idea what the fuck some of it's doing there. There's a poem about his cat. Several about exchanging his typewriter with a computer. Some are about being old They're repetitive, some descriptions or variations thereof are used more than once. To be honest he's a little off through the whole thing, but some are worse than others. There are still moments when he shines and I'm amazed. But not as much as I'd like.
Maybe I'm just expecting the wrong thing:
"I am writing a novel now and one way
or the other I have lost 4 chapters in this
computer.
now like everything else
this isn't such an important thing
unless it happens to you
(...)
like you'll read this poem and
think, too bad, well, he lost 4
chapters
but couldn't he have written a
poem about
reaming some whore in a
motel room
instead?"
but couldn't you have done that, Charles? And saved me having to sit through this drivel that leaves a bad taste in my mouth and a feeling like you've given up?
No, in the end I can't blame him. He didn't publish it. The whole selection suffers under not having been meant to be published together.
The title is exceptional though, that alone deserves 5 stars, I wish the rest had too.
And he might well have been. I didn't know this was a selection of previously unpublished works until I was almost done reading it. "New Poems" might have given it away, but all poems are new at some point, so really, how would I know? Had I known I might not have bought it.
The thing about selections like this is that, well... some things were just never meant to be published.
The majority of the poems in this book are pretty good - but not great. Bukowski is very apt at making me see the world from a different perspective - one that is otherwise lost to me, and I love that. I love the style he has and the easy simplicity he employs.
However, we do hit some less fortunate selections. To be quite frank I have no idea what the fuck some of it's doing there. There's a poem about his cat. Several about exchanging his typewriter with a computer. Some are about being old They're repetitive, some descriptions or variations thereof are used more than once. To be honest he's a little off through the whole thing, but some are worse than others. There are still moments when he shines and I'm amazed. But not as much as I'd like.
Maybe I'm just expecting the wrong thing:
"I am writing a novel now and one way
or the other I have lost 4 chapters in this
computer.
now like everything else
this isn't such an important thing
unless it happens to you
(...)
like you'll read this poem and
think, too bad, well, he lost 4
chapters
but couldn't he have written a
poem about
reaming some whore in a
motel room
instead?"
but couldn't you have done that, Charles? And saved me having to sit through this drivel that leaves a bad taste in my mouth and a feeling like you've given up?
No, in the end I can't blame him. He didn't publish it. The whole selection suffers under not having been meant to be published together.
The title is exceptional though, that alone deserves 5 stars, I wish the rest had too.
October 27, 2019
This collection is surprisingly consistent and wonderful. Poems that were left to be published after his death. The stark beauty of simplicity on display. Bukowski breaks down this complicated thing we call Life. My stand out fave is ‘ The Smirking Dark’. It had an ‘It Follows’ vibe.
The following poem reminded me of Kanye’s confessional song ‘Runaway’. Let’s have a hand for the douchebags... though in the poem, it’s the complainers. Lol idk I also think it’s worth noting the double play of the line ‘and it’s just another day/ wasted’. Indeed.
Killing Life
minor and trivial complaints,
constantly aired,
might drive a saint mad,
let alone a common good
old boy ( me ).
and worse, those who
complain
are hardly aware they do it
unless finally told
and even finally told
they don’t believe it.
and so nothing leads
anywhere
and it’s just another day
wasted,
kicked in the ass,
mutilated
while the Buddha
sits in the corner
smiling.
The following poem reminded me of Kanye’s confessional song ‘Runaway’. Let’s have a hand for the douchebags... though in the poem, it’s the complainers. Lol idk I also think it’s worth noting the double play of the line ‘and it’s just another day/ wasted’. Indeed.
Killing Life
minor and trivial complaints,
constantly aired,
might drive a saint mad,
let alone a common good
old boy ( me ).
and worse, those who
complain
are hardly aware they do it
unless finally told
and even finally told
they don’t believe it.
and so nothing leads
anywhere
and it’s just another day
wasted,
kicked in the ass,
mutilated
while the Buddha
sits in the corner
smiling.
January 25, 2018
Some of these were excellent, some of these weren't.
But hey, that's Bukowski.
First Love:
"--without those books
I'm not quite sure
how I would have turned
out:
raving; the
murderer of the father;
idiocy;
hopelessness.
when my father shouted
"LIGHTS OUT!"
I'm sure he feared
the well-written word
immortalized
forever
in our best and
most interesting
literature.
and it was there
for me
close to me
under the covers
more woman than woman
more man than man.
I had it all
and
I took it."
But hey, that's Bukowski.
First Love:
"--without those books
I'm not quite sure
how I would have turned
out:
raving; the
murderer of the father;
idiocy;
hopelessness.
when my father shouted
"LIGHTS OUT!"
I'm sure he feared
the well-written word
immortalized
forever
in our best and
most interesting
literature.
and it was there
for me
close to me
under the covers
more woman than woman
more man than man.
I had it all
and
I took it."
February 13, 2022
It is always a comfort to me to read Bukowski’s poetry.
June 5, 2008
"upon reading a critical review"
it's difficult to accept
and you look around the room
for the person they are talking
about.
he's not there
he's not here.
he's gone.
by the time they get to your books you
are no longer in your
books.
you are on the next page,
in your next
book.
and worse,
they don't even get the old books right.
you are given credit you don't
deserve, for insights that aren't
there.
people read themselves into books, altering
what they need and discarding what they
don't.
good critics are as rare as good
writers.
and whether I get a good review or a
bad one
I can take neither
seriously.
I am on the next page.
in the next book.
it's difficult to accept
and you look around the room
for the person they are talking
about.
he's not there
he's not here.
he's gone.
by the time they get to your books you
are no longer in your
books.
you are on the next page,
in your next
book.
and worse,
they don't even get the old books right.
you are given credit you don't
deserve, for insights that aren't
there.
people read themselves into books, altering
what they need and discarding what they
don't.
good critics are as rare as good
writers.
and whether I get a good review or a
bad one
I can take neither
seriously.
I am on the next page.
in the next book.
November 3, 2012
He was allowed to explore his signature turns of phrase, too, all. I know most of us depend on Hank/Chuck the pithy eloquent filthmonger of lust, self damage, isolation & drunken hatred. So I really dug his final foray into a more fluid languid style.
We all had to draw our own interpretations in Bone Palace; Bukowski ditched a lot the dirty sad honesty he offered us most of the time so I rated Bone Palace five stars. At his caliber he'd earned it. Yeah as a newbie go w Post Office, but don't write this off as "not Bukowski enough," please.
We all had to draw our own interpretations in Bone Palace; Bukowski ditched a lot the dirty sad honesty he offered us most of the time so I rated Bone Palace five stars. At his caliber he'd earned it. Yeah as a newbie go w Post Office, but don't write this off as "not Bukowski enough," please.
April 28, 2013
Bukowski always grabs my total attention. Whether I'm completely outraged by his cantankerous, lustful and provocative pieces or am lifted by his insightful and sensitive poems dealing with classical music, cats and horse racing, I am always fully engaged, entertained and challenged. This collection of some of his latest poems also includes many wonderful pieces where looks into the face of death with defiance. He will always be one of my favorite poets.
March 1, 2020
Another volume of madness, art, emotion. Through his later years Bukowski becomes wiser yet the profoundness of his voice remains intact. Seemingly flirting with death, he still churns the lines as powerful as ever, covering a wide spectrum of themes between life and death. Poetry that will make your toes curl.
July 29, 2016
Witty, real, and addictive to read, poem after poem. This collection is great for reading while alone and late at night. You'll feel his company.
December 14, 2022
the five star reviews acting like this man was shakespeare reincarnated when 98% of this collection was shit like “you are the yummy yummy man of my dreams” and “your mother’s got a great ass” 😭😭😭 unserious behavior
October 8, 2022
A really great variety in this collection. Very few stinkers in the batch.
September 6, 2018
This being an assortment of buk's variously uncollected poetry - important to note: rather than vs. 'unpublished', b/c many of these poems had actually seen publication in a motely of lit mags, 'zines, & other such rags - what we have here is a considerable passel of Bukowski miscellanea that, due probably to the sheer voluminousness of his major poetic works, a ~forty-year catalog of great entries like "The Days Run Away like Wild Horses Over the Hills," "Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, "You Get So Alone at Times...", didn't for one reason or other find inclusion into the pre-posthumous selections.
But this aside, not a few of the poems here represent the roving-blind-and-patently-hostilely-drunk rôle of Bukoswki-cum-Chinaski, in tortured weltering nights of Los Angeles, where, whilst sitting through some privately tremendous gloom, he writes of Mozart and the "parched innards of mountains."
In other poems we easily sympathize with his familiarly topical themes of loss-of-Woman, alcoholism, and the poets either antecedent to him - and to whom he pledges unspecific fidelities for their sometimes influence - or, then, contemporaries of the verbal slingshot; cf. Fante (not an infrequent trope, in fairness), Ginsberg, Mailer, etc.
Always the shitting on Shakespeare and the luxury praise for those like Céline and, of course, one or two lamenting with nearly a fetishistic turn of pen the almost-fates of Dostoyevsky and to an extent the infernal, vitriolic boxer and fisherman, Ernesto Hemingway.
The themes are not unique or otherwise uniquely drawn out, and the determinism of the Bottle is - as always - all too present and, in some cases, prescient - as in the poems wherein he talks of his youthful forays into the looking-glass of a bottle of rye, for instance. It's the obvious sentimentality of Bukowski and it's the obvious resultant charm of this that makes this collection, like so many of his more popular posthumous collections, so, so accessible; and, wonderfully,this is to my knowledge the collection of his most purely free of the sometimes meandering and - IMO - heavily boring cuts about horse-racing.
In the meanwhile,
"waiting for the thunder
that will not be heard,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female who will not
arrive,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
you can only wonder."
-(pp.174, "40,000")
But this aside, not a few of the poems here represent the roving-blind-and-patently-hostilely-drunk rôle of Bukoswki-cum-Chinaski, in tortured weltering nights of Los Angeles, where, whilst sitting through some privately tremendous gloom, he writes of Mozart and the "parched innards of mountains."
In other poems we easily sympathize with his familiarly topical themes of loss-of-Woman, alcoholism, and the poets either antecedent to him - and to whom he pledges unspecific fidelities for their sometimes influence - or, then, contemporaries of the verbal slingshot; cf. Fante (not an infrequent trope, in fairness), Ginsberg, Mailer, etc.
Always the shitting on Shakespeare and the luxury praise for those like Céline and, of course, one or two lamenting with nearly a fetishistic turn of pen the almost-fates of Dostoyevsky and to an extent the infernal, vitriolic boxer and fisherman, Ernesto Hemingway.
The themes are not unique or otherwise uniquely drawn out, and the determinism of the Bottle is - as always - all too present and, in some cases, prescient - as in the poems wherein he talks of his youthful forays into the looking-glass of a bottle of rye, for instance. It's the obvious sentimentality of Bukowski and it's the obvious resultant charm of this that makes this collection, like so many of his more popular posthumous collections, so, so accessible; and, wonderfully,this is to my knowledge the collection of his most purely free of the sometimes meandering and - IMO - heavily boring cuts about horse-racing.
In the meanwhile,
"waiting for the thunder
that will not be heard,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female who will not
arrive,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
you can only wonder."
-(pp.174, "40,000")
January 9, 2025
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Stars
where love died
laughing.
-- "big night on the town"
this incomplete sob of darkness.
a wingless bird waiting.
a druid in the wasted light.
a drunk in the gutter.
the singing of fools
and the volcano laughing.
-- "bone palace ballet"
life has abused me and I have misused
it.
I enjoy attacking the sun with a
squirt gun.
-- "candy-ass"
nothing leads
anywhere
and it's just another day
wasted,
kicked in the ass,
mutilated
while the Buddha
sits in the corner
smiling.
-- "killing life"
you know, this sitting
around waiting to
die,
it's not a very kind
hobby.
I watch the smoke
drift about the
room, turn up the
radio.
I tell you, I don't mind
death
but it pisses me off
when the animals
die.
-- "the x-factor"
fools sometimes create
genius by their
persistence
and their
puking empty
unjustified
horror,
unmitigated.
-- "the barometer"
all right, so I was forged by the devil: all
humankind disinterests me and no, it's not fear although
certain things about them are fearful, and it's not
competition because I don't want
anything that they want, it's just that
in all those hours of
voices voices voices
I hear nothing either essentially kind or daring or noble,
and not the least bit worth all the time shot through
the head.
-- "self-invited"
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Stars
where love died
laughing.
-- "big night on the town"
this incomplete sob of darkness.
a wingless bird waiting.
a druid in the wasted light.
a drunk in the gutter.
the singing of fools
and the volcano laughing.
-- "bone palace ballet"
life has abused me and I have misused
it.
I enjoy attacking the sun with a
squirt gun.
-- "candy-ass"
nothing leads
anywhere
and it's just another day
wasted,
kicked in the ass,
mutilated
while the Buddha
sits in the corner
smiling.
-- "killing life"
you know, this sitting
around waiting to
die,
it's not a very kind
hobby.
I watch the smoke
drift about the
room, turn up the
radio.
I tell you, I don't mind
death
but it pisses me off
when the animals
die.
-- "the x-factor"
fools sometimes create
genius by their
persistence
and their
puking empty
unjustified
horror,
unmitigated.
-- "the barometer"
all right, so I was forged by the devil: all
humankind disinterests me and no, it's not fear although
certain things about them are fearful, and it's not
competition because I don't want
anything that they want, it's just that
in all those hours of
voices voices voices
I hear nothing either essentially kind or daring or noble,
and not the least bit worth all the time shot through
the head.
-- "self-invited"
August 12, 2018
Great book. Had fun reading. Super last collection by the master: Bukowski. He takes us on a journey thru the modern American human landscape. He is clever and sharp, intense and promiscuous, dismissive and rough. In an easy style, he bares loneliness, inanity and obtuseness that hides within the fold of the fabric of modern life. His style is to be imitated for profit. We see his journey from anonymity to fame, from stress to relative peace. He is observant and penetrating. I read well over a 100 pages of the poems today and felt enlightened, informed and joyous. [Not depressed!] He has his brand of wit and charm. Up with Chinaski!
March 14, 2020
Extremely hit and miss postmodern poetry. Section III was the best of the book, and some near the end were great too. It looks like he usually writes mostly the same types of poems (Drinking, Horse Racing, Womanizing, street life, social isolationism, old man complaining, ars poetica, or some combination of the former), but it surprisingly doesn't get old. Despite the extremely varied quality of the poems therein, this collection was a breeze to read, and he's great at getting you to keep on reading. He's magnetic, even if you're abhored by him.
April 14, 2020
I was not ready for this.
"...
now I fill my glass
and drink to it all:
to my loyal readers
who have kept me off
skid row,
to my wife and my
cats and my editor
and to my car
which waits in the
driveway
to transport me to the
racetrack tomorrow
and to the last line
I will ever write.
it has been a miracle
beyond all
miracles.
"here's mud in your
eye!" as we used to say
in the thirties.
thank you."
"...
now I fill my glass
and drink to it all:
to my loyal readers
who have kept me off
skid row,
to my wife and my
cats and my editor
and to my car
which waits in the
driveway
to transport me to the
racetrack tomorrow
and to the last line
I will ever write.
it has been a miracle
beyond all
miracles.
"here's mud in your
eye!" as we used to say
in the thirties.
thank you."
February 9, 2020
As always, there is so much beauty in this. Towards the end the poems reflect more and more on mortality. It’s interesting because it doesn’t ask if life was worth it or if there was more to do, it just says death is coming. But that might just be me.
October 23, 2023
Por alguna razón estos poemas no habían sido publicados. En algunos nos encontramos con el Bukowski de siempre, el que te hace sentir, el que te hace ver la vida desde otra perspectiva, Usualmente lúgubre, pero real. En otros, no hay nada. Me quedo con los primeros.
September 1, 2017
One of Bukowski's best collections, with an arc from birth to near death.
October 10, 2017
Just a few good ones here.
December 23, 2017
surprisingly dense, long narrative poems at the beginning, much autobiography, hardly thinning a bit to the end
February 16, 2019
Great writing from the old man. Insight to life and thoughts on most things.
April 16, 2019
Still enjoy his early work better than the later.
March 29, 2020
Same old stuff from Bukowski. I don't like it as much as I used to but it hits the spot sometimes.
August 7, 2020
first bukowski read. mixed feelings, mostly unimpressed.
November 13, 2020
One of the better posthumous collections of the Bukowski canon
September 10, 2021
If you like Bukaowski, all of his stuff is good.
November 23, 2024
I’ve read Jane Austen, yeah, & I think she would’ve liked Bukowski!
June 23, 2019
There are a few gems in here, but most I could do without.
June 27, 2024
The way old Bukowski writes about death is very refreshing.
1. (God is boring but people still got a chance)
neither of us had been
to Mass for
months.
it was boring.
it was more fun
talking to the
priest.
2.
not that I was a decent
human being
but I wasn’t aligned
with any group or
ideology.
3.
I sat at that library table caught between suicide and acquiescence
I was no longer young; I was older than the centuries.
I closed the last book, the last magazine then.
I walked out of there.
the streets were all I saw.
I walked into
them.
4.
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were.
it was the same any place and every place
5.
waiting…
for what?
for nothing but the
irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like
them.
6.
it takes a lifetime to die and
no time at
all.
7. (Read "bar stool", it explains his mentality when he was roaming around poor in different places)
8.
it seldom works the way we think it
works.
in fact, it never
does.
9.
another fellow with a bullshit
story while I was thinking up one of my
own.
10.
“also, when they used
the word ‘nigger’ you
didn’t protest.”
“I thought they were
talking to me.
hell, baby, I’m a
nigger.”
11.
just work and wait and work and wait
as the sun is wasted
as they are wasted.
12.
there is always Christ drunk in
the tavern with dirty
fingernails.
13. (like us)
we approach the 21st Century with our dirty stinking laundry
14.
he asked, did you ever think you would live this long?
Frankie, I haven’t lived this long, I’ve lasted this
long
15.
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
16.
I would like a little more kindness and warmth
in the structure of things.
17.
the word is one of
the most
powerful miracles
in
existence,
it can enlighten or
destroy
minds,
nations,
cultures.
the word is dangerous
and beautiful.
18.
still, a poem can only
be a poem.
lines like these
floating on a page
burning holes in the face of
death
19.
we are destroyed by our
conscience, I explained to
him.
20.
I used to stand and beat
my hands against the bricks until they bled and
I kept punching but the world stayed there
unlikeable, monstrous, deadly.
21.
all our neighbors think that
we are
weird.
and we think that they
are.
and we’re all
on
target.
22.
but don’t bury me yet.
don’t worry if I drink with
Sean Penn.
just measure the poems
as they come off the
keyboard.
23.
beware these who rally too often to
popular causes,
not because the cause is
necessarily wrong
but because their motive is
self-serving—the cause being
their cause.
24.
believe me, I had no idea I would
live this long, I had planned an
early exit and lived with a reckless
abandon.
25.
pain seeks each individual
separately
and that’s where hell
begins
stays
festers
celebrates
its
greatness.
26.
it seems that things just don’t work
most of the time
and when they do it will be for a
short time
only.
27.
too often, the only escape is sleep.
[...]
I am alone but not lonely.
we all expect more than there is.
28.
Bach and I are
in this
room
together.
his music now
lifts me beyond
pain
and my
pathetic
self-interest.
Bach, thanks to you,
I have no
living
friends.
1. (God is boring but people still got a chance)
neither of us had been
to Mass for
months.
it was boring.
it was more fun
talking to the
priest.
2.
not that I was a decent
human being
but I wasn’t aligned
with any group or
ideology.
3.
I sat at that library table caught between suicide and acquiescence
I was no longer young; I was older than the centuries.
I closed the last book, the last magazine then.
I walked out of there.
the streets were all I saw.
I walked into
them.
4.
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were.
it was the same any place and every place
5.
waiting…
for what?
for nothing but the
irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like
them.
6.
it takes a lifetime to die and
no time at
all.
7. (Read "bar stool", it explains his mentality when he was roaming around poor in different places)
8.
it seldom works the way we think it
works.
in fact, it never
does.
9.
another fellow with a bullshit
story while I was thinking up one of my
own.
10.
“also, when they used
the word ‘nigger’ you
didn’t protest.”
“I thought they were
talking to me.
hell, baby, I’m a
nigger.”
11.
just work and wait and work and wait
as the sun is wasted
as they are wasted.
12.
there is always Christ drunk in
the tavern with dirty
fingernails.
13. (like us)
we approach the 21st Century with our dirty stinking laundry
14.
he asked, did you ever think you would live this long?
Frankie, I haven’t lived this long, I’ve lasted this
long
15.
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
16.
I would like a little more kindness and warmth
in the structure of things.
17.
the word is one of
the most
powerful miracles
in
existence,
it can enlighten or
destroy
minds,
nations,
cultures.
the word is dangerous
and beautiful.
18.
still, a poem can only
be a poem.
lines like these
floating on a page
burning holes in the face of
death
19.
we are destroyed by our
conscience, I explained to
him.
20.
I used to stand and beat
my hands against the bricks until they bled and
I kept punching but the world stayed there
unlikeable, monstrous, deadly.
21.
all our neighbors think that
we are
weird.
and we think that they
are.
and we’re all
on
target.
22.
but don’t bury me yet.
don’t worry if I drink with
Sean Penn.
just measure the poems
as they come off the
keyboard.
23.
beware these who rally too often to
popular causes,
not because the cause is
necessarily wrong
but because their motive is
self-serving—the cause being
their cause.
24.
believe me, I had no idea I would
live this long, I had planned an
early exit and lived with a reckless
abandon.
25.
pain seeks each individual
separately
and that’s where hell
begins
stays
festers
celebrates
its
greatness.
26.
it seems that things just don’t work
most of the time
and when they do it will be for a
short time
only.
27.
too often, the only escape is sleep.
[...]
I am alone but not lonely.
we all expect more than there is.
28.
Bach and I are
in this
room
together.
his music now
lifts me beyond
pain
and my
pathetic
self-interest.
Bach, thanks to you,
I have no
living
friends.
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