I’d fully planned to record a new video for my YouTube channel and then found myself delaying and procrastinating and … whatever the worse thing is that comes after procrastinating. Quite simply, I didn’t want to do it.

So I’m not.

Here’s a poem that was written many, many, many years ago and which I recently went on a search for because I’d told my wife that I’d written this poem many, many, many years ago and of course she wanted to read it.

So here it is.

music of any kind

Charles Bukowski sat at his typewriter like a piano,
swilling beer & punching keys late into the night
& perhaps my greatest failing as a writer is also mine as a person as well –
because here i am with only a few ounces left &
the clock running towards one in the morning

but there's no music of any kind now.

the first time i heard you laugh, it was music to my ears
because there’s so much bullshit tied up in our fears
that i never bothered to wonder if anything was right or wrong
the only question i wanted answered, 
you answered with a laugh
and then a yes.

so here’s an answer perhaps a few hours late:
you add music - crescendo and decrescendo, forte altissimo notes
and subtle mezzo piano interludes - expressions
of kindness and awareness of others that my own personal score
had neglected to include.

you were the one who caused another to exclaim
“you stare at her as if she were some kind of goddess!”
ah, mi diosa, you were and i nodded and replied “yes, i do”
because there was no other way to explain it...

but there’s no music of any kind now.

sitting here raw as a wire laid bare, knowing there’s an excellent chance
that i’ve overstayed my welcome on this borrowed time -
and if that’s the case, so be it... never thought this circus would
make it farther than the sticks and here i stand on Broadway
staring at the lights and listening to the sounds thinking
what in the heavens and hells have i found?

your song is the one that has been on heavy rotation in my mind
and every service, every kindness is a dedication of a kind -
in between the static and station identification and commercial breaks,
there’s truth and love and all other manner of sins included therein
because that’s how these things work.

but there’s no music of any kind now.

turn the knob... see what’s on...
i think... they’re playing our song.