I am in here.
Sitting with my back to the snow which starts at the door to this table and this bench next to the altar that holds a dish with money from Costa Rica and India in it and from here, with a large rock holding it all down next to the candle next to the window next … Continue reading Sitting with my back to the snow
Tom Waits reads a Charles Bukowski poem. I’ve always loved Bukowski’s poetry, even in spite of the fact that most poetry magazine information sheets tell you that they won’t accept Bukowski type poems. They’re getting awfully bloodless, these modern poetry places. Related articles by Zemanta Saturday poem: funhouse by Charles Bukowski (guardian.co.uk) Charles Bukowski: Locked … Continue reading Tom Waits reads Charles Bukowski
Poetry is a dumb Buddha who thinks a donkey is as important as a diamond. Denial, repression, all those psychological adaptations we developed in childhood were ways of not being there, because being there was too painful. Writing demands that we cut through and be where we are, like a cat gripping the side of … Continue reading qotd
Lighting one candle with another candle— spring evening. Yosa Buson (1716-1783)
white pebble 