Maybe Bukowski

Digital StillCameraFind what you love, and let it kill you” – Bukowski (perhaps)

WHO was found?

WHO reached in

furled fingers clasping

the silvered snare waving

an invitation in
the unseen between…

and which must

in love/for love/

for fragmented poetry,
etched deeply

on the decaying
walls that house us?

This much I know…

You do not



  1. Dancer

    So good to see your written word, refreshing like the first sip of an ice old crisp beer, hope to read much more…much like buying a six pack.

    1. Hello sweetest boy! Thank you. I missed your generous spirit. Could do with a sixer myself right about now.

  2. You do not write. You do not write. You do not write. How many times have those four words cut pathways through me. Welcome home sister.

    1. Bless you for your warm words… but the words are whispers lately. I will keep trying though…

  3. What if you *cannot* write? There is grief there too.

    1. Don’t I just know it. Recriminating/suffocating/aching grief…. and a sense of confusion. Where the hell’d it go?

  4. Stunning, Morts. Welcome home.

    1. *smooch* Salve, gorgeous! Think I need a cruise to Tlnd… obviously the creating energy is thrumming loudly over there, and the sky is filled with flying words.

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