warner treuter

This hate you have for your family,
Let it go.
Right or wrong, let it go.
And of course, you're right,
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She likes the sadness,
Life has let her down,
Prefers to smiles
The furrows of a frown.
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All the beauty I have known,
For me extant in palimpsest,
(Real, would weigh a trillion ton) ,
God carries on his breath.
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All the beauty I have known,
(For me extant in palimpsest;
Real, would weigh a trillion ton) ,
God carries archived on His breath.
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Revisions are what poetry is all about.
Double-digit revisions show you care.
I remember writing a poem about a man
Who lived in a weird area where
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It's happening already.
Don't you feel it?
The subtle changes
In the evolutionary body
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note: I am not in entire disagreement with
the paramhamsa u. only I think it can only apply
to the exceptional one in a billion who may be ready
for such an extreme action. It can in no way
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The earth will not be free of hate and violence
And be filled with thoughts of good-willed tolerance
Until we've rid ourselves of the old religions,
And hold beliefs not edifice but stanchions.
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- note: just a quickee poem of alert on what could be the major turning point in modern world political history. -

Alex Jones
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Bukowski -part 2

It took me 45 minutes to upload part 1 without losing it so I can't take a chance on putting this poem there, as I was going to do. Oh, well, at least I didn't lose the first part, which I had worked on while on the computer here. This is hardly a poem, I know: I just wanted to clarify my own outlook on an unusual writer brought to my attention and recall yesterday by coming upon him on You Tube. He's the kind of writer you can hate yourself for liking or accept the best part of him and be charitable to the rest. He's the kind you don't forget, though many would not want to remember. Henry Miller is tame in comparison. I remember one bookseller telling me that he got tired of Bukowski's throwing up (puking, Bukowski likes to call it) and so quit reading him. I felt similarly but I didn't find much of that in his poems, those that I read. And I've read only a small number of the many books, both prose fiction and poetic fiction that he wrote. One cannot always tell the fiction from the embroidery from actual factual remembrance in Bukowski, for he writes in a storyteller style, with great talent for nuance. And it's usually in a Been around the Bowery and back, kind of way. And he has.
On 2nd thought, all I have written below is probably only my attempt to understand a type of person so different from me, a drunk, a good guy with extreme talent, but still, a drunk; maybe I'll never understand. But just like Bukowski, I try. Once in a very great while.
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June 4,2010

latest on my Inbox
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Aaaiii...Aaaeee.............
O the glory of it all.
The love, the love,
The dedication, hopefully
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A guy i used to work with
Called Wally, used to say to me
Over and over, every once in a while:
'Look out for number one, Treuter,
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(a la Alex Jones!)

Everything is a lie and a cheat
And a steal.
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(perhaps kind of corny but I think contains a slip of truth)

One of the most desirable things in life
Is to be born a perpetual innocent,
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When I was younger and got religion
And got filled with love
It seemed to me that nobody cared
Or rather that they hardly cared
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No more hi-falutin' poetry for me.
Expending an effort that nobody will see.
Doggerel verse works just as well
For philosophy or to tell a tale.
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The apotheosis of humanity
Is Buddha, Christ and likely others.
In this they may be one with what's beyond.
They go up to as far as we can see.
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Leaves from his branches are falling off:
A human tree in wintertime,
Said to be deciduous.
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