Wednesday, April 4, 2012

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


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


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


and I strike

with the rolled-up-paper -

missing! - 



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


the paper, of course,

is ruined;

something has happened,

something has soiled my


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.

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