fires

burning, burning

a dismal god-damned night, the birds are limp
on the wire, the cats asleep on their backs,
legs stuck up into the lifeless
air. the homeless are still
homeless as a bell rings in my head
and
on the radio a man
shoves a Spanish rhapsody by Liszt
at me like an insult.
then, that's over and I'm told that eventually
something by Bach will be along if I manage to
stay awake.
as if to help, boat horns now blast from the
harbor.
if it weren't so hot tonight those things would all
fit together but instead
there's a madness in the air.
I'm not preaching or suggesting.
I'm simply telling you how
it is.
I get cranky in the heat, drink too much, smoke bits
of old cigars, pull at my left ear, scratch my
arms, think of bellybuttons, tombstones, cacti,
watchsprings, other oddities.
well, look, here's Bach and I'm still awake.
I need another reason to stay in this room full of ghosts,
some of them my own.
it could be worse, it will be.
nights like this. stuck here. grim reality
belches, more
boat horns blow.
the years hang strangled. I
burn my hand with a match.
the dream lies huddled, muddy.
confusion and sanctity reign.
effortless, painful, obnoxious, beautiful nights
like this. lives
like this.
there's too much to say, the dead
laugh as Bach enters
making palaces of sound, I can't stand it and yes
I can


- Bukowski