Tuesday night, overcast with dropping temperatures, 30 degrees.
I have had the worst migraine for days now, but I finally succumbed today and spent the day in bed with a pillow over my head. Nothing helped, not rest, not meds, not dark, not quiet. Nothing.
Alas, alack, as they say . . .
Thought I’d resurrect Two for Tuesday with one of my favorite poets: Bukowski. Enjoy.
For the whore who took my poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn’t you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I’m not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won’t be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there’ll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Untitled
As the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you’ve created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
~ Charles Bukowski
Lola's Curmudgeonly Musings 