I googled just briefly and I found this...I quite liked it and it seemed appropriate for me to post this now...

LOSS
The day he moved out was terrible
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasnt a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.

Fell free to post Dorothy Parker Brigid...seems like it would be fitting...

X.....

I wish we could stop the hatred
And bring on prestige smile
Who knows how did we got here
It was no way our desire

I was searching for the river
End it up by the mountains
Somehow lost my way around
With bogus sense of directions

Your lies were coming at me
From all sides and directions
You that you could roll me
With never ending sanctions

Wake up in the morning
So as middle of the night
Nightmares are hunting me
And no I am not alright

You said you dont want to battle
Tired of the fights
But your words proven nothing
Hope for better days in sight

Desperately moving now
Toward happier directions
Just no way to live like this
That is out of question

Lived in some dark places
Looking for the twilight
I walked through hell and back
And the moon shined on me midnight

Remember I said to you
Put yourself in to my shoes
You never had the courtesy
All you cared about is you

What will i do with my life
Its a never ending question
Regardless now what I find
Still seeking new dimensions

All old friends are long gone now
As I walked around in ire
No one wanted me around
With this kind of desire

I use to spent long and boring nights
All alone in corners
That crazy love is long time gone
Just like old performers

Wendy Cope: The Health Scare

http://www.tunesbaby.com/dm/?x=xmpsgg

"I'm living with uncertainty and fear
It helps to say their names and make them rhyme."

OH, YES!!!

Brigid,

Buddhist nun Pema Chodrin has a book called "Comfortable with Uncertainty."

Truth is, all of life is uncertain. We like to THINK we have control, but any control is only an illusion. An illness like this is especially frustrating though. It frustrates me not to have a 'timeline" and not even know for sure if i have fibrosis or cirrhosis. ... as if it would make a change in how I live my life, which in truth it would NOT!

I think this was posted here ages ago...might have been a different Bukowski poem though. He's truly an American classic.

Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994)
The Aliens
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.

I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn't have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn't make for an interesting person. I didn't want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.
Charles Bukowski

I teach English and just love poems of any kind. These are awesome. Thanks guys for sharing...
xo Karen:)

Lost Fugue for Chet
by Lynda Hull


Chet Baker, Amsterdam, 1988

A single spot slides the trumpets flare then stops
at that face, the extraordinary ruins thumb-marked
with the hollows of heroin, the rest chiaroscuroed.
Amsterdam, the final gig, canals & countless

stone bridges arc, glimmered in lamps. Later this week
his Badlands face, handsome in a print from thirty
years ago, will follow me from the obituary page
insistent as windblown papers by the black cathedral

of St. Nicholas standing closed today: pigeon shit
& feathers, posters swathing tarnished doors, a litter
of syringes. Junkies cloud the gutted railway station blocks
& dealers from doorways call coca, heroina, some throaty

foaming harmony. A measured inhalation, again
the sweet embouchure, metallic, wet stem. Ghostly,
the horns improvisations purl & murmur
the narrow strasses of Rosse Buurt, the district rife

with purse-snatchers, women alluring, desolate, poised
in blue windows, Michelangelo boys, hair spilling
fluent running chords, mares tails in the sky green
& violet. So easy to get lost, these cavernous

brown cafs. Amsterdam, & its spectral fogs, its
bars & softly shifting tugboats. He builds once more
the dense harmonic structure, the gabled houses.
Lets get lost. Why court the brink & then step back?

After surviving, what arrives? So whats the point
when there are so many women, creamy callas with single
furled petals turning in & upon themselves
like variation, nights when the horns coming

genius riffs, metal & spit, that rich consuming rush
of good dope, a brief languor burnishing
the groin, better than any sex. Fuck Death.
In the audience, theres always this gaunt man, cigarette

in hand, black Maserati at the curb, waiting,
the fast ride through mountain passes, descending with
no rails between asphalt & precipice. Inside, magnetic
whispering take me there, take me. April, the lindens

& horse chestnuts flowering, cold white blossoms
on the canal. Hes lost as he hears those inner voicings,
a slurred veneer of chords, molten, fingering
articulate. His glance below Dutch headlines, the fall

"accidental" from a hotel sill. Too loaded. What do you do
at the brink? Stepping back in time, I can only
imagine the last hit, lilies insinuating themselves
up your arms, leaves around your face, one hand vanishing

sabled to shadow. The newsprint photo & Im trying
to recall names, songs, the sinuous figures, but facts
dont matter, what counts is out of pained dissonance,
the sick vivid green of backstage bathrooms, out of

broken rhythmsand Ive never forgotten, never
this is the tied-off vein, this is 3 a.m. terror
thrumming, this is the carnation of blood clouding
the syringe, you shaped summer rains across the quays

of Paris, flame suffusing jade against a girls
dark ear. From the trumpet, pawned, redeemed, pawned again
you formed one wrenching blue arrangement, a phrase endlessly
complicated as that twilit dive through smoke, applause,

the pale hunted rooms. Cold chestnuts flowering April
& youre falling from heaven in a shower of eighth notes
to the cobbled street below & foaming dappled horses
plunge beneath the still green waters of the Grand Canal.

I like this...

"...After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say "I WANT TO SEE THE MANAGER."

William Burroughs "