Moments were your breath is captured, crushed and then torn away

Hit between the eyes when River Phoenix died, in my gasped sigh I
swear a piece of my own soul died. You were far too young, far too
perfect to be gone speeding just like a passing train flashing by? but
that was your way that was your life. In 'Stand by Me,' I could not
believe the beauty of this elfin face so elegantly delivering words of
maturity so eloquently beyond your tender age. But in hindsight I now
see your whole doomed life was etched over that young tender
haunted?innocent face. Your sibling once a Leaf now Joaquin carries on
your name, he is less than perfect more substance to him, more bone, he
is not so pure, he broods his voice is as shallow as dark as a whisper
in the night. His face carries the physical scar from a childhood
accident? His eyes carry the scars of a burden of a perfect brother so
cruelly taken away. You are now quite a while gone but he is still
walking in your shadow?I am concerned for him and urge him to move
on?and yet again selfishly I think of you and him together and dream of
the films that might have been.

In 1981 I watched a whole nation embrace an ageing prince and a young
(to be fair a well to do) woman, I sat gasping almost crying with a
mixture of anger and admiration at their devotion to this insidious
deceit. "No, no what are you doing?" I cried, how could people
celebrate so passionately this arranged wedding manufactured, purely
designed to prolong an archaic family's way of life?how could they not
see this? If she Diana, was unaware at first she soon realised because
she was not so dim as imagined, that they would sacrifice her if she
did not play along with their game. The night she died is another of
those moments where you wheeze and then suck in air, blink, shake your
head at the TV, close your eyes open them again and see that the truth
is not a dream that will fade away.

Beauty and impressive are not words that you should openly use when
describing the destruction of the twin towers during 9/11. But when I
got home from work that day after hearing all from word of mouth, I
have to say amazement rather than horror was my first emotion. Amazed
that they could do this, amazed that they could be so cruel, amazed at
their own sacrifice, amazed that they could do this knowing fine well
what the reaction of a brain dead but brutal American administration
would be, amazed at the visual spectacle of two 757's actually
imploding on sides the twin towers. Never has a message from the east
to the west been so precise, unequivocal and to the point. Never has
the way of life that I take for granted been so callously demonstrated
to be so fragile and not so invincible after all. And since, never has
the precious air I breathe tasted so sweet.

I heard about this chap called Charles Hank Bukowski, I am not a poet
or a great fan of it, but I heard great things of him so I ventured to
find his words, but to be truthful his love of cats was the reason for
my curiosity. I found a site amongst others with over a 100 of his
pieces. Now I am player of this writing game, perhaps naively thinking
that it can be learned, I tinker with word and phrase and smile smugly
with delight when I accidentally conjure up a tasty line?but the truth
of the matter is on this web page, the truth that writers are born not
made. His words are simple; the message clear, the honesty of emotion
is profound, and the clarity of how it really is can reach in and rip
the heart out of your back.

Reading,

I laugh out loud still at 'I Met A Genius.'

I cheer at the loyalty, realness and honesty of 'The History Of One
Tough Motherfucker.'

I anger when I read 'Hell is a lonely place.'

I am in despair during 'The death of an idiot.'

And when I read 'For Jane,' my breath for a small moment is always
captured, crushed and then torn away.