My silence surrounds your beauty

My silence surrounds your beauty
Your beauty surrounds my war
They are singing my song in the party lights
but it’s the darkness that it’s written for

And this darkness will not surrender
to the brutality of the sun
I’ll avenge dear reader your broken soul
but I take unbroken love in return

- Charles Walker

I know the photographs I’ve saved aren’t of you
Here in my memories your shadows,
your darkness, your light; that’s not you
Your friends from Bombay working in Boston,
in their restroom chats you’re mentioned; (they don’t know this but) it’s not you

in cheap hotel rooms,
in jazz concerts from stage,
with some time to kill and beers to drink
we all tell the stories of your skin’s December warmth
but that’s not you

you who is ethereal for everyone like me
you who is so solid with that one man

- Charles Walker

“I would dance with you, Maria, but my hands are on fire.”

- Bob Dylan at an afterparty to a fellow singer Maria Muldaur when she asked him to dance with her so as to cheer him up after the booing at the Newport Folk Festival 1965 when Dylan went electric.

an exceprt from ‘within the dense overcast’

I see you in the closet.
I see you in the dark.
I see you dead.
I see you in the back of a
pick up truck on the
Santa Monica

the perfect place to be
in the rain
is in the rain
walking toward a
at one thirty
there is a lone light
in an upper
it goes out.
a dog howls.

the nature of the dream is
best interpreted by the

wood is frozen

- Charles Bukowski

An excerpt from ‘darkness & ice’ [from The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992)]

I am spooked by the bluebells and the silent harp while
passing down Western Avenue and seeing the tombstones
placed flat instead of upright upon the cemetery lawn: our decent
modernity not wanting to upset us with Finalities while we
pay 22% interest on our credit cards.

- Charles Bukowski

An excerpt from ‘wandering in the cage’ [from The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992)]

people are strange: they are constantly angered by
trivial things,
but on a major matter
totally wasting their lives,
they hardly seem to
notice …

on writers: I found out that most of them
swam together.
there were schools, establishments,
groups gathered and fought each
there was literary politics.

there was game-playing and

I always thought writing was a
solitary profession.

still do …

- Charles Bukowski