Polar-Bear-Ness

Just another weekend in San Francisco

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tinyblue hands, no, your hands are not tinythey are small, and the fountain is in Francewhere you wrote me that last letter andI answered and never heard from you again.you used to write insane poems aboutANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and youknew famous artists and most of themwere your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealousbecause we’ never met. we got close once inNew Orleans, one half block, but never met, nevertouched. so you went with the famous and wroteabout the famous, and, of course, what you found outis that the famous are worried abouttheir fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bedwith them, who gives them that, and then awakensin the morning to write upper case poems aboutANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ toldus, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybeit was the upper case. you were one of thebest female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved youlike a man loves a woman he never touches, onlywrites to, keeps little photographs of. I would haveloved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling acigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, alllovers betray. it didn’ help. you saidyou had a crying bench and it was by a bridge andthe bridge was over a river and you sat on the cryingbench every night and wept for the lovers who hadhurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but neverheard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met youI would probably have been unfair to you or youto me. it was best like this. Charles Bukowski

Tree Paper

I want this wallpaper in my future apartment.

How Fitting

Imperfection

I’m tired of making mistakes. I’m even more tired of getting things right. Nothing is happening. Everything is safely in slow motion, played backwards, edited and clarified. I despise that kihnd of professionalism. What is more beautiful than a misspelled word or a birthmark on the side of the face? There is so much beauty in error.

It’s not that I am saying that people should go around and demolish the human language with error, but a deliberate change in the system can be so eloquent if done correctly. To mar perfection, or so it’s called, is to be an artist. Am I right? The man who murders a white canvas with a red brush is a disturber of the peace, but what comes out of it is this thing called art. Those who frown on imperfection are merely negating their own humanity. Man is the greatest imperfection. The man who wears the scars is the canvas of a source of greater power. Those who lack the physiognomy of the scarred man are not the one’s in power because they will never know true imperfection.

Fear

The man with no legs will always appreciate walking more than the man who retains this ability because he will never again know what it’s like. What does this tell us? We should always try new things because one day it could all go away. Human imperfection. Fear. Why do we fear? Because the body retains its own sense of mortality and immortality. If the body feels immortal, it will prolong doing things relative to the fear because it believe it will have a lifetime or more to experience an event. The body that feels mortality will retaliate against its owner and will become overwhelmed with the sanctity of its own form that it will repeal against the task. So how is one to conquer the complex of mortality and immortality? To indulge. To indulge is the only way to feel. To indulge is the only way to be alive.