Old man poetry, young man poetry.

Old man poetry and young man poetry….

Something is wrong with me.

A Poem by Coyote Poetry

Bukowski had stole my soul….

                  Something is wrong with me…

(Old man poetry. Written on 28 June 2020)

Something is wrong with me. I am like a Bukowski  poem gone wrong.

Bukowski told us, do what you love, even if you must be alone, you must go hungry, be homeless and know hard days. Go all the way or just become a mountain that don’t move.

I have become the mountain now, never moving, accepting life as-is.

Once I wanted to save my world, write the great novel and live near the sea.

I befallen and I can’t find my real face.

I feel I am becoming more stone and rock than human skin.

Once I drank to feel alive, once I sought war to know I was alive.

Love was never my strength, patience is my enemy and kindness is forgotten.

Bukowski would tell me. “You did a fool’s dance for the rich men.

Skinned off your real face and be-face with liar eyes.

Now accepting, just enough.

Remember Johnnie, never trust a man who doesn’t drink.

Drink the strong whiskey till you can see,

then, your sleepy eyes can be awaken by the taste of the whiskey.

You will see, you are swimming in shit.”

Something is wrong with me. I have become the Hemingway’s ghost.

I need the tropical sea, quiet places and polite woman.

I have none of these.

I need to follow Hemingway’s advice. Finish one project and work on one thing only.

End at good open statement so you can find the flow of thoughts again. I need to bleed

to paper.

I met Bukowski once in California in the early nineties in a Tavern. I had a lot of cash and I bought the

whiskey and we drank. He liked me and he told me. Write hard words, honest words. Make

the people feel your suffering. I didn’t know who he was that day. His last words were very cool. He told me,

“you write like shit, but suffer some more and you will write better.”

Maybe I am where I suppose to be?

Maybe I wasn’t brave enough?

Maybe I didn’t drink enough?

Dancing Coyote

———————————————————————————————————

(YOUNG MAN POETRY)

Bad to the bones

(Written in 1989 rewritten today)

I’m going crazy. I don’t know which way is out or in.
I have fell into too deep. I can’t see the light.
Darkness took my heart and mind to better places than here.

I can’t see beyond this moment,
I don’t want more lies adding to the overflow of naysayers and dead in dreams and hope.

I’m been led to the slaughter, not knowing why I fight and kill?
Even alcohol and taverns leave me yearning for better place and ending.

I’m beyond being saved.
I don’t care if I live or die.
My bones had turn cold. Soft heart to leather and spoil blood.

I can’t remember the sweet woman I have known.
I don’t even know If I had loved or not?

Going crazy.
Roaming the California coastline trying to find my sanity.

I sit at River Inn in Big Sur, California,
listening to people not in prison yet.
They told me. Better to dance and sing to the end.
When you give-up your voice and opinion,
you got nothing left.

I listened to the song. “Bad to the bones.”
Make me want to brake the chains and know what I truly need.
Life is getting harder. Old soul need some relief.

Better to suicide the sea, climb the mountains near.
Pay no attention to people who want to drain your blood and
leave you for dead.

Freedom of mind and spirit. Can’t let it go.
Better to die free and know the open road and good people.
Who don’t want to own you.

Coyote/John Castellenas