Two Hundred and Twelve
2.20.17
This is not your regular grumpy Bukowski, this is not the dirty ol’ bastard who takes in all the low points of life and projects them on a white page, the same way a projector projects movies on screen. This is much more softer, this is the Bukowski of the blue bird… this is when he takes the bird out of his chest late at nights and let’s it sit by the window, this is before he puts the bird back in the cage and pours whiskey on it…
I have seen this Bukowski…we were together on Saturday evening, we sat together, and we cried, and then we took a nap. What stories we had for you on the tip of our tongues, but they all turned to butterflies, before we could speak of them.. (you know of these butterflies, and all the forgotten names and words) And when we woke up there was whiskey, sweat, blood.. I went back to the streets deep into the night, and eventually stopped on a dance floor. Bukowski stumbled down the alley with a pint of whiskey and a song on his lips..but before he left, he told me:
Charles Bukowski
The Laughing Heart
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
One Poem At A Time 