happy 30





happy thirty
happy death
happy where are we

I have traveled
inside a cave
crushed inside skin
dried patches of skin
hands callous
the incurable stink of walking
over distance
dark distances

I have traveled
in dangerous caverns
falling, screaming

for thirty years
closing in on those
scarce drips of essence
those impossible puddles of truth

inside a cave

where I begin to feel like shadow
dark layer upon dark layer
going nowhere

I already hear them singing:

happy happy thirty
happy birthday
joyous shadow
lost lost lost in time




nihilistic poetry

and the bone and the flesh and the

bukowski quote

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than

the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same

he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
to fit the term

pleasure, yes
but excess?

but I’m not
here to
or compare

simply to
on my twenty-
finished year:

‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’

wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?


If stories had some sort of reality I would narrate my dissolution amongst the heavenly bodies; if fantasies were not merely fictions I would vanish careless in the wind; if words were not all vain and empty I would tell everyone that life is a bubble of dream and we are nothing but footprints on sand.
If changing the world meant anything I would form a new republic; if truth existed I would refute the philosophers; if god existed I would be fearless to leave this world…
On my 26th birthday. January 7th 2008