there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

-Bukowski

i -
we are not who we say we are, on one hand
we are who we try not to be.
we are the dumb sum total of our actions, on the other.

we are candles on the coffee table
are we the heat?
are we the light?
are we the wick set against the wax & time?

ii -
we are awake, like in the night.
we are white sails in black seas
over brown boards, beaten.
would we not still be adrift if we knew the reason?
are we the heat?
are we the light?

j. heineman