I need money and a job.

 

Malaga and Granada in a day. ( juan O savin)

 

Broke stiff yoga.

 

THE ears are buzzing

 Brother of the blowfly

And godhead, you work magic

Over battlefields,

In slabs of bad pork

And flophouses. Yes, you

Go to the root of all things.

You are sound & mathematical.

Jesus, Christ, you're merciless

With the truth. Ontological & lustrous,

You cast spells on beggars & kings

Behind the stone door of Caesar's tomb

Or split trench in a field of ragweed.

No decree or creed can outlaw you

As you take every living thing apart. Little

Master of earth, no one gets to heaven

Without going through you first.

~ Yusef Komunyakaa, "Ode To The Maggot" 🐸🐸🐸🐸🐸🐛🐸🐸🐸🐸🐸

Three muscateers under the rolling hills and moonlight

 There ought to be a place to go

when you can’t sleep

or you’re tired of getting drunk

and the grass doesn’t work anymore,

and I don’t mean to go

to hash or cocaine,

I mean a place to go to besides

the death that’s waiting

or to a love that doesn’t work

anymore.

there ought to be a place to go

when you can’t sleep

besides to a tv set or to a movie

or to buy a newspaper

or to read a novel.

it’s not having that place to go to

that creates the people now in madhouses

and the suicides.

I suppose what most people do

when there isn’t any place to go

is to go to some place or to something

that hardly satisfies them,

and this ritual tends to sandpaper them

down to where they can somehow continue even

without hope.

those faces you see every day on the streets

were not created

entirely without

hope: be kind to them:

like you

they have not

escaped.

Charles Bukowski

A Plausible Finish

. Day one in the house. Damp bones and old squid. the hopes crumble,

 

Unloved by the addicts

 There ought to be a place to go

when you can’t sleep

or you’re tired of getting drunk

and the grass doesn’t work anymore,

and I don’t mean to go

to hash or cocaine,

I mean a place to go to besides

the death that’s waiting

or to a love that doesn’t work

anymore.

there ought to be a place to go

when you can’t sleep

besides to a tv set or to a movie

or to buy a newspaper

or to read a novel.

it’s not having that place to go to

that creates the people now in madhouses

and the suicides.

I suppose what most people do

when there isn’t any place to go

is to go to some place or to something

that hardly satisfies them,

and this ritual tends to sandpaper them

down to where they can somehow continue even

without hope.

those faces you see every day on the streets

were not created

entirely without

hope: be kind to them:

like you

they have not

escaped.

Charles Bukowski

A Plausible Finish