B E B E R E

8 Count

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker.

-Charles Bukowski

***

Poetry Month this year started off as a sort of hymn to Spring. Now, it appears to be turning more towards depression (specifically mine).

My shrinks have always suggested that I keep a journal of sorts. I was never able to, though, as thinking about and trying to communicate in words how I felt would put me in a rotten(er) mood. I always worried, too, about sounding like the paradoxalist in Notes from Underground.

In this format, things seem to be different. Letting other people speak for me helps. Maybe the rhythm of the arranged words helps soothe me. There's also the thought that I'm not alone in this that helps as well. Don't know. Anyway, for the moment, it's flowing well.