October Prose (Part Two)

Over the last two weeks I have started writing more poetry. It is a nice exercise for me. I’ve been trying to take from Charles Bukowski. It is evident that the drinking did help, and it brought me back down to some sort of misconstrued stability. It seems irresponsible, but I am producing content. Now, I have to continue with these exercises, and get back into a steady flow of words written. It helps. This works. Enjoy…

“Pleading, the fifth”


Done, is the drink in his hand.

Done, dim are the lights,

last call.


As faces fade,

and the door opens,

lonely is the man,

that fails.


A shift in seat,

eyes wandering,

left to right.

While all the while,

he wrote,

he writes.


October air,


the man home,

to the streets.

Yuppie < Beatnik,

in public,

he speaks.



in a bench,

his bed.

Words written, they

position his neck,

he rests his head.


Morning, glory!

Next day, reprieved!


joints rustle,

as leaves are blown by the wind.

Away goes the old,

death is easily carried,



This life,

his life,

carried away.

Not knowing,


destruction is beautiful.

It only takes one’s self,

to realize.


To realize,

a beauty that:

Is not at the end of a bottle.

Is not an ashtray full of butts, or

of what ifs.

It’s not lights out.


It’s the glimmer in someone’s eye.

The morning dew,

that reveals,

the previous night.

It’s the ink, bleeding.

The newspaper that crumbles.

The makeshift home,

that conceals,

a lost soul.


“Little Things We Miss”

Children know not,

what love is,


Just as their parents,

did not,

when they were small.

It is something passed along,

generation to generation,

to use, exceedingly,

when old.

Such a foreign concept,

when not taught.

And yet, when learned,

it is a power.

A force that can overthrow,


Love is impressionable.

Love is always justified.

And love, can

sometimes be malicious.

It is passion. It is security. It is an honest belief.

What is love?

It is a wall between two cities,

the rocking chair in the corner of the room,

and the recipe book shelved.

It is the wine glasses,

the lover’s warm breath on your neck,

and a locked bedroom door.

It is a book,

the men following footsteps,

and the flash before detonation.

It is strained vocal chords,

the incessant ringing of a phone,

and frown lines etched in a face.

It is the sirens announcing defeat,

the tears that become screams,

and doors being kicked from their frames.

But, one thing love is not,

love is not a heart.

Love can never be a heart.

Love is a key.

Love is changed locks.

Love is a blown bulb.

Love is the smell of rain.

Love is a river overflowing.

Love is a torrential downpour.

Love is the ups and downs.

The good and the bad.

The old and the new.

But one thing love can never be…

It can never be a heart.


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