Old man words and young man words.


Something is wrong with me.

A Poem by Coyote Poetry


Bukowski had stole my soul.


                  Something is wrong with me.
(Written on 28 June 2020)
Something is wrong with me. I am like a Bukowski  poem gone wrong.
Bukowski told us, do what you love, even if you must be alone, you must go hungry, be homeless and know hard days. Go all the way or just become a mountain that don’t move.
I have become the mountain now, never moving, accepting life as-is.
Once I wanted to save my world, write the great novel and live near the sea.
I befallen and I can’t find my real face.
I feel I am becoming more stone and rock than human skin.
Once I drank to feel alive, once I sought war to know I was alive.
Love was never my strength, patience is my enemy and kindness is forgotten.
Bukowski would tell me. “You did a fool’s dance for the rich men.
Skinned off your real face and be-face with liar eyes.
Now accepting, just enough.
Remember Johnnie, never trust a man who doesn’t drink.
Drink the strong whiskey till you can see,
then, your sleepy eyes can be awaken by the taste of the whiskey.
You will see, you are swimming in shit.”
Something is wrong with me. I have become the Hemingway’s ghost.
I need the tropical sea, quiet places and polite woman.
I have none of these.
I need to follow Hemingway’s advice. Finish one project and work on one thing only.
End at good open statement so you can find the flow of thoughts again. I need to bleed
to paper.
I met Bukowski once in California in the early nineties in a Tavern. I had a lot of cash and I bought the
whiskey and we drank. He liked me and he told me. Write hard words, honest words. Make
the people feel your suffering. I didn’t know who he was that day. His last words were very cool. He told me,
“you write like shit, but suffer some more and you will write better.”
Maybe I am where I suppose to be?
Maybe I wasn’t brave enough?
Maybe I didn’t drink enough?
Dancing Coyote



Bad to the bones


(Written in 1989 rewritten today)


I’m going crazy. I don’t know which way is out or in.
I have fell into too deep. I can’t see the light.
Darkness took my heart and mind to better places than here.

I can’t see beyond this moment,
I don’t want more lies adding to the overflow of naysayers and dead in dreams and hope.

I’m been led to the slaughter, not knowing why I fight and kill?
Even alcohol and taverns leave me yearning for better place and ending.

I’m beyond being saved.
I don’t care if I live or die.
My bones had turn cold. Soft heart to leather and spoil blood.

I can’t remember the sweet woman I have known.
I don’t even know If I had loved or not?

Going crazy.
Roaming the California coastline trying to find my sanity.

I sit at River Inn in Big Sur, California,
listening to people not in prison yet.
They told me. Better to dance and sing to the end.
When you give-up your voice and opinion,
you got nothing left.

I listened to the song. “Bad to the bones.”
Make me want to brake the chains and know what I truly need.
Life is getting harder. Old soul need some relief.

Better to suicide the sea, climb the mountains near.
Pay no attention to people who want to drain your blood and
leave you for dead.

Freedom of mind and spirit. Can’t let it go.
Better to die free and know the open road and good people.
Who don’t want to own you.

Coyote/John Castellenas

Dead man stew


Poor man is dying.
Was still swimming in the allusion of youth.
He whispered to me. Words I would not forget.
“Allah la ilah.”

I watched and assisted moving the bodies being stored in a frozen storage containers.
Forgotten men with names whispered by Family and friends.
Death Valley left the sand bright red.
A once great country learn.
Dead man don’t rise up my friend.


The barbarians came and showed the world how strong and powerful they are.
They smiled and celebrated great victory.

I stood in the Iraq desert.
I could hear the whispers of lost spirits.
Nothing is over, nothing is over.

A warmonger cried for more blood.
Darkness and contempt take over my heart.
I wish the leaders who demand war over peace.
Bombs over gift of water, food and medicine.
Would they send their children to the darkness of war?

Newly risen hate is rebirth is places where death is the norm.
Powerful men kill woman and children without thoughts.
Blood create the need for more blood.
When a nation had nothing left but a good death.
Expect a fight till you are dead and the meek will finally win.

Dead poets once wrote.
“War is man’s sin.”
“Sad to watch something that was alive become dead.”

I’m told we fight terrorist. Threats to our borders.
The barbarians will travel 5,000 miles and portrait the people in their own country
as terrorist.

I believe a terrorist is where you are standing.
150,000 soldiers from another land destroying cities and setting up governments on your land.
The people of the country know.
The armies are the terrorist.
I do understand.


If you kill my child and wife,
I would revenge too.
If I have nothing to live for.
I will kill my enemy till death take me home.
Nothing is over, nothing is over.

We need leaders who can read history.
If you want to stop violence.
Quit sending guns.
Place embargo on weapons and items of destruction.

Send food, water and medicine.
How many poor men and woman will die for the greed of war?
Middle East is very old.
Old ways and standard not understand by the barbarians.
Can’t change the old places.
Allow them to control their own destiny.

Please leave Syria alone.
Shooting bombs into old cities.
Killing woman and children.
You are not the peacekeeper.
You are the dealer of death.

Allah la ilah.
Nothing is over, nothing is over.

Weak leader are create a dead man stew.
Where everyone will lose in the end.


Broken man prayers

A Poem by Coyote Poetry


We pay for every sin my friend. Walk softly through life. Real and solid things come to us rarely.


                                 Broken man prayers
Happy hour had passed. Last call was whispered  by the kind bartender.
Her kind and sad eyes told me. She knew I had no place to go. She had no words
for a dead man walking.
“Old men smoke and drink.
Become colder and older.
Old Poet don’t write sober poetry no-more.
Drunk and disappointed poetry.
Allowed the Poet to create.
Old man sister cried, dear mother tried to find the boy who held dreams.
Now all the broken man had is.
Is a broken man prayers.
Last call, first call.
No angels in the dark taverns.
Just pretenders.
Trying to find hope in the bottle of  the good whiskey.
Burning desires, burning emotion.
Dead and gone.
Drunk men wisdom catches up.”
He remembered a  beautiful  face crying in the slow rain of a cold December day in 1992.
Telling the Soldier. “Please stay with me my love.”
War, whiskey and the damn 3,000 miles.
He knew as soon as he headed west.
They would be no-way back.
He held his good friend Jack.
Held the whiskey tightly in his hands.
He told the pretty bartender. “Here is my best tip for you.
A gift of a drunk Poet words and prayers.
“My lover, my killer.
I lost you in the lost and found.
I can’t find the way back my kind lover.
You made me live once and we made love till the morning lights.
I was going to be  Hemingway and you were to create art and beauty.
I didn’t know.
You can’t go back. I learn too late.
Lovers hold on forever. Not allowing anyone or anything to separate them.
I don’t seek to find you. I know you can’t rebirth what is dead and buried.
I have found the dead-end road.”
The kind bartender tapped his hand gently and told him. Go home my friend.
No forgiveness in the dark bar. Just people seeking things that can’t be found.
Today the bad days, good days are the same.
I sit by pier where Hemingway stood once.
I wonder is there peace for a man who wanted to see and touch everything?
Maybe Hemingway found the answer.