“Don’t Try.”

Bukowski_email

Alluring caterpillars
Crumple and stretch their fuzzy bodies
Like accordions,
And dance
Over
The painted concrete
Of abandoned discos.

And this isn’t vandalism
It’s neon.

And a passing wrinkle
Flaps his lips:
“Things of beauty are never forced.”

The caterpillars build cocoons.

I say:
“Bullshit. Beauty is imagined.”

We play with words for a bit.
His a little more courageous.
Mine a little more whoreish.

But both
Not sure if wisdom, or truth
Confront
In our dialogue playground.

“People just like to be heard.”
I say.

The wrinkle flattens,
Turns down his hearing aide.

The cocoon breaks.

I whisper lies,
To prove my point.

They float away.

Quiet as the monarch’s
First flight.

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