I was NOT asked to parrot a poem and this is not even a poem but still...... maybe this could be that one last letter of the girl in brier's poem....4 months ago...... September 29, 1984 Dear so and so Gather me up because I'm lost Or I'm back where I started from I'm crawling on the floor rolling on the ground I might cry I won't go home So here's the story I am turning up in circles And I'm spinning on my knuckles Don't forget that there are circles left undone And very close to me Forgive me Comfort me I'm crawling on the floor Rolling on the ground There's a blanket wrapped around my head I'm moving in a line that's shaped like this I'm holding in my breath I have a room Can you tell if I am lying Don't forget that I'm living inside The space where walls and floor meet There's a box inside my chest An animal stuffed with my frustration Can you hear me? Don't forget that I'm alone when you're away You make me act like other people do Forgive me Comfort me You comfort me You make me die I'm gonna cry I won't go home Don't kill the god of sadness Just don't let her get you down See that man inside that book I read Can't handle his own head So what the hell am I supposed to do? I'd like to know how he died My hands are shaking Don't you love me anymore I only need a person, keep my shoulders Stand around lie down Move your hand above the floor Gather me up because I'm lost Or I'm back where I started from I'm crawling on the ground Rolling on the floor I'm gonna cry You look for me Love Kristin, P.S. keep them coming ----------------------------------------------------- *my bit ......* now i don't know, maybe this is just an effort to prove myself I'm still alive, as if this matters to anyone but anyway, and striving to breathe somewhere in between the crowded sidewalks and the grey dirty walls of the cities. falling ..... helplessly in the deep creases on the skin of my hands....... and the painful grin of angst my smile has become. ha, not that anyone really cares....... i don't either. i may survive come through and off into the light or the darkness i don't mind or i may not as well....... its ok by me.. but anyway everyone is walking again and again over the same circles he has deeply carved onto the ground trudging and shuffling his feet over his own footsteps...... over and over for years. and as time goes by this circular pit gets deeper and the getting out of it more difficult.. you are spinning around..... and like the needle of the turntable...... stuck on the same coil...... Mortal. for you. but you may as well just choke in the acrid vomit of your own thoughts. or set your lungs on fire as you're trying to breathe deeper and deeper and DEEPER. Ha girl...... your mind's exploding tiny narrow and restricted. by the four walls of your room. your house your classroom. your uni. your office. sitting by the window doesn't help. near the coffee machine. ha. wrapped up in the tin of your car. my beautiful sardine.you. picking your nose after you smudge your lips with more lipstick while waiting for the traffic light to turn green. ha..... I've been wandering in the dark . feeling my way in the dark. but i can't touch anyone. and noone can touch me. IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE? IF YES PLEASE DO STAY AWAY! staggering on the verge of something i can't make out... But the vertigo of the F a l l is beyond my resistance......... I'm afraid the vein on my arm, that prominent big one will one day burst inexplicably...... i can't take that out of my mind every time i look at my arm..... please. don't move when you see me bashed down on the ground with blood running from the corner of my mouth. it's not your fault and it's not mine. it's not a fault even let me die please? my eyes are filled with water. my eyes are filled with wonder.
I was asked to parrot a poem, so I give you some Bukowski:
an almost made up poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again. you used to write insane poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you knew famous artists and most of them were your lovers, and I wrote back, "it's all right, go ahead, enter their lives, I'm not jealous because we've never met. we got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched." so you went with the famous and wrote about the famous, and, of course, what you found out is that the famous are worried about their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed with them, who gives them THAT, and then awakens in the morning to write upper case poems about ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't so sure. maybe it was the upper case. you were one of the best female poets and I told the publishers, editors, "print her, print her, she's mad but she's magic. there's no lie in her fire." I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you pee in the bathroom, but that didn't happen. your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. "kid," i wrote back, "all lovers betray." it didn't help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide 3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you I would probably have been unfair to you or you to me. it was best like this.
-Charles Bukowski
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