limbo

cuesta respirar en el momento
decisivo cuando la vida se parte
en dos rumbos y solo uno es el
elegido sin saber el destino

me encuentro en ese punto
donde el tiempo deja de existir
la eleccion pudo haber sido prematura
nunca lo sabremos

that old dream

old dream my
old dream
looking lifeless
lost in the back of my worries
lost in a void of hope

old dream have
found me while still

dream of my visions
embrace me with your love
embrace
me who abandoned you
in this short experience of living

noticia

me acabo de enterar que en la luna hay agua
tal vez por eso está lloviendo
pobre luna
no sabe lo que le espera

autumn 9 to 5

sitting here
waiting for the sun to warm
any part of my body
naked at this moment only hands and face
but still sitting here
waiting waiting in vain
for an optical illusion
(somebody mentioned in the back)
i'll be leaving when the grass that i
can see through the window -hours
of noise and gas-
will be pale and everything else dark
no warm
just cold
waiting waiting everyday
and when i finally leave
there's no more waiting
only death

the wasted profession

all the words, you know, it's hard to tell if you're truly on course or
on some vanity trip: how much can be said, how much has
already been said, and why?
other writers' words do me little good, then, why should mine be
special?
all my words...do they creat
laughter through the flame?

the same poets reading over and
over again in the same venues; I am embarrassed for them and for
myself:
do we really think that we are fashioning speech more un-
usual than a stock market or weather
report?

all the words--we type away--on and on--most of us living lives
ordinary and without courage--are we sick to think that our
speech is
exceptional?

I don't like us and I never did--is there anything worse
than a creature who lives only to write
poetry?

charles bukowski (the continual condition)