You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses

“Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented, the dreamers, poets, lovers are always superior to us creatures of the mind. You take your being from your mothers. You live fully; you were endowed with the strength of love, the ability to feel. Whereas we creatures of reason, we don't live fully; we live in an arid land, even though we often seem to guide and rule you. Yours is the plentitude of life, the sap of the fruit, the garden of passion, the beautiful landscape of art. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffocating in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker. You sleep at your mother's breast; I wake in the desert. For me the sun shines; for you the moon and the stars. ”




                                                                                                                                 - Hermann Hesse

Does this come in Krishna?

For Lou

Vrindavan - City of Widows

Radhe Radhe

Revolutions in love

Brazil

Indus-try

we are human beings, not doings

lotus-feet

Instead of "Oh my god" or "Golly gosh", excitement will now be exclaimed as:

Holy Soul Jelly Roll!

Bin-diving [edit]

Hey Albert. I saw you on the street the other day. It’s been a while. How long’s it been? 15 years? I was just writing to say you’re looking good. This might sound a little strange but I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drinking this gin while I write and all these memories are flooding back. I figure you’re still living in the same apartment so I thought I’d write you and leave it in the letterbox. I saw your mug in the daily throwaway with regards to your new artwork. Albert, the years look good on you. Like a well-worn suit. What’s your secret you crazy old fool?

Do you still wander like we did all those years back in ’72 watching the streetlights throwing shadows against the wall? Man, do you remember the time, it was summer and we had just been out with those two girls at the cinema? They were both real nice. Cassie the singer and the other one with the black lipstick and the choker. Kim. She was so sassy.

Anyway, we’d just dropped some acid in the playground at your old school a while earlier and we were headed for that 24 hour café on Caligula Boulevard when that kid came at you screaming like a mandrake with a bottle up above his head. We were chasing the dragon right down that dark street. He takes a swing and it connects and knocks you down. I remember you hopped right on up again ready to beat him up but I told you to take a rest. Then he gets up in your face, his breath of brandy and death and he says ‘That blood looks good in your hair’. And then I says ‘Get outta here, punk. Don’t you know we’re a recipe for disaster!’ We were fierce in those days. I’ve always thought revenge tastes like camembert. Whenever I say this to people they look at me funny. They move away, their faces distorting in confusion and disgust. And the same thing when you tell them war tastes like meat that has been fermenting in dumpsters out the back of supermarkets, and that if people can taste this, how could they possibly keep fighting? And how could politicians condemn innocent people to death, and how could journalists write in support of politicians with the taste of rotting meat in the back of their throats?

Well anyways, I’ll say it again. The streets are becoming of you, Albert. They bring out your age and compliment your bulges and balding head. What do you do now old friend? I’m struggling through the-world-goes-too-good-for-me blues. This is gonna sound soft, what I say next. I can even hear your voice, ‘stop being such a sissy Bruno.’ They were the best of times. When we didn’t need to sleep and we were the kings, eating and drinking with our eyes, seeing through our ears.

We both agreed that the streets taste of warm vegetable soup. But that’s all history. The years have worn me down. I’m not so resilient. Not so tough. Now I gotta wear a suit and talk shit down the phone all day. You know the feeling of wanting to run away from everything. I’ve got that inside me. An urge to get as far away from this backwards town as possible. I don’t have anyone here to wait for. Susan left me years ago. The only thing stopping me is the realization that no matter how far you go, you can never get away from yourself.

Hey, remember that other time we went bin-diving, and you held me by the ankles as I rummaged through the shit and bread crumbs and tonnes of human garbage Maybe I could come round some time and we could drink gin together and let it all flow right out? Chew the fat. But excuse me now, I’m going to go sit in the public gardens and ruminate.

Regards,

Bruno Woltzen.

Charles Bukowski Book Titles Read As A Series Of Tweets About My Life

• Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness (1972)

• Hot Water Music (1983)

• Tales of Ordinary Madness (1983)

• You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (2002)

decrepitude

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/decrepitude

Winter Manifesto

I will work on music

I will learn something new about the guitar everyday

I will read voraciously, learning new words and concepts and writing them down so I can process the ideas better.

I will speak my mind

I will do things for others.

I will do things for me.

blue nomads

Always uncertain,

Always smiling,

Ten times a day, apologizing.

Over spilt milk.

Over spilt come.

Over everything I haven’t done

Or haven't said, my voice reveals

The inner sad. That holds me tight

locked in my head, key thrown to the night.

You breeze through my door, press your lips against mine
Whisper me to calm, I am yours for all time.

less is more

I don't want to waste any words. Carver always knows how to say it, how to capture moments that we struggle to find words for in a couple of verses. Less is more.

“The Best Time of the Day” — Raymond Carver

Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.

Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love

these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.

Or ever.

chocolate chip broom handle

sweep me out onto the street

make pumpkin soup of me

paprika, cumin, me

then red wine disappearance

voltage freak-wish nightly to see your car

across the street

you in a lean

waiting for me.

no words needed.