my cousin Bernice

My cousin Bernice is a talented fashion designer. I am hoping Zach and Bernice will have a chance to collaborate on a piece in the near future. We are in the midst of exchanging emails and brainstorming ideas ... this initial stage is always exciting and full of possibilities ...

I thought I'd give a shout-out to her on our blog, and share with her my favorite Bukowski poem:

2 Flies

The flies are angry bits of life; 


why are they so angry?


it seems they want more,


it seems almost as if they


are angry


that they are flies;


it is not my fault;


I sit in the room


with them


and they taunt me


with their agony;


it is as if they were


loose chunks of soul


left out of somewhere;


I try to read a paper


but they will not let me


be;


one seems to go in half-circles


high along the wall,


throwing a miserable sound


upon my head;


the other one, the smaller one


stays near and teases my hand,


saying nothing,


rising, dropping


crawling near;


what god puts these


lost things upon me?


other men suffer dictates of


empire, tragic love…


I suffer


insects… 


I wave at the little one


which only seems to revive


his impulse to challenge:


he circles swifter,


nearer, even making


a fly-sound,


and one above


catching a sense of the new


whirling, he too, 

in excitement,


speeds his flight,


drops down suddenly


in a cuff of noise


and they join


in circling my hand,


strumming the base


of the lampshade


until some man-thing


in me


will take no more


unholiness


and I strike


with the rolled-up-paper -


missing! - 


striking,


striking,


they break in discord,


some message lost between them,


and I get the big one


first, and he kicks on his back


flicking his legs


like an angry whore,


and I come down again


with my paper club


and he is a smear


of fly-ugliness;


the little one circles high


now, quiet and swift,


almost invisible;


he does not come near


my hand again;


he is tamed and


inaccessible; I leave


him be, he leaves me


be;


the paper, of course,


is ruined;


something has happened,


something has soiled my


day,


sometimes it does not


take man


or a woman,


only something alive;


I sit and watch


the small one;


we are woven together


in the air


and the living;


it is late


for both of us.

housefly earrings via jewelrycollectibles by Peggy Johnson

                             
that's all.