"We've both been through fire, dear friend, and there's more to come.”
— Bukowski
if we take what we can see— the engines driving us mad, lovers finally hating; this fish in the market staring upward into our minds; flowers rotting, flies web-caught; riots, roars of caged lions, clowns in love with dollar bills, nations moving people like pawns; daylight thieves with beautiful nighttime wives and wines; the crowded jails, the commonplace unemployed, dying grass, 2-bit fires; men old enough to love the grave. These things, and others, in content show life swinging on a rotten axis. But they've left us a bit of music and a spiked show in the corner, a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie, a small volume of poems by Rimbaud, a horse running as if the devil were twisting his tail over bluegrass and screaming, and then, love again like a streetcar turning the corner on time, the city waiting, the wine and the flowers, the water walking across the lake and summer and winter and summer and summer and winter again.
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Some days Buk speaks more clearly than others.
The pendulum gauge of global madness seems to need to swing very far in one direction, before swinging back to some kind of sanity.