Sustainable fascist mafia poets

Swallow the Night

I walked out into the night
with the desire to swallow it whole.
Instead I swallowed many drafts
of alcohol, and let oblivion
swallow the night.

-Daniel Sensor

"Lost" ~ by Charles Bukowski

They say that hell is crowded, yet,
when you’re in hell,
you always seem to be alone.
& you can’t tell anyone when you’re in hell
or they’ll think you’re crazy
& being crazy is being in hell
& being sane is hellish too.

Those who escape hell, however,
never talk about it
& nothing much bothers them after that.
I mean, things like missing a meal,
going to jail, wrecking your car,
or even the idea of death itself.

When you ask them,
“how are things?”
they’ll always answer, “fine, just fine…”

Once you’ve been to hell and back,
that’s enough
it’s the greatest satisfaction known to man.

Once you’ve been to hell and back,
you don’t look behind you when the floor creaks
and the sun is always up at midnight
and things like the eyes of mice
or an abandoned tire in a vancant lot
can make you smile
once you’ve been to hell and back.

setting moon
and the sweetheart tree.
once for you
and once for me.
owl calls and fire burns,
crosstown lovers
hearts they yearn.
❤️
Here is the Mutiny I promised you.
Here is the Moment it turned into.
❤️

i’d like to think that our souls
might be familiar with each other
the way this conversation is flowing

though not physically
i’m meeting you with every word

i follow the call of the whippoorwill at midnight
And sit on his wooden steps.
The lake is a stone’s throw away. And I think of beginnings. And endless endings.

What can I say?

What can I say that I have not said before?
So I'll say it again.
Stone is the face of patience.
Inside tour he river there is an unfinishable story
and you are somewhere in it
and it will never end until it all ends.

Take your busy heart to the art museum and the chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
were a child
is singing still.
I am of years lived, so far seventy-four,
and the leaf is singing still.

-Mary Oliver

A strange passion is moving in my head.
My heart has become a bird
which searches in the sky.
Every part of me goes in different directions.
Is it really so
that the one I love is everywhere?

x.