gods

Tom Waits growls and wails from the living room stereo
I crack a fresh beer and join her on the bed
a freshly-bought anthology of early Bukowski poems sits on the desk
read me something, she says
I read her poetry and drink beer
as she listens with eyes closed
her mouth held in a grin of contentment
I finish a poem and close the book
resting my head back on her thigh
she sighs deeply
I can’t remember, she says, the last time I’ve been this happy
neither can I
is this not Heaven?
are we not gods?

questions

what will be my epitaph
where should we retire
where will all my money go when I die off

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do I really like my job
is this car big enough
would we happier if we had one more child

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is this the career for me
could I go back to school
can this woman make me a happy man

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where will I settle down
when will I find a job
is this degree I’ve got really worth a damn

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am I being immature
is sex all that I’m looking for
how no one is understanding me

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should I stay in classrooms
will I ask her out tonight
will I get that part-time work this summer

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where shall I say life’s going
what should I be living for
is there a god who’s watching out for me

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where can I sleep tonight
what will I eat tonight
where can I wash my face and change my socks

angst

this ecstatic revelry does little to subside my angry spirit
the only end met is that of increasing dissatisfaction
and angst
that lessens the value of current reality and pulls me deeper
into future dreaming
which tarnishes any hope I had to find worth in my present action
the God I seek, my sole salvation, is to be found in this moment
and with each passing vision of my future enlightenment
the God I seek falls farther away
and the warmth enfolded fades
and once again
I’m lacking

eye’s lies

in all these eyes in all the world
lies an ocean as deep as this heart
that ever-feeling, ever-changing tide
washes the shores of countless minds
in all these eyes lay different truths
and in each truth lay different lies
behind them all – behind each eye
the one God keeps the real inside
the magic, it seems, comes not in truth
but in the lies that each eye tells
the endless flights of fellow eyes
keeps us looking for God inside
and to these eyes I tell my lies
and try to hide the truth inside