Bukowski, revisited
He pooped it all out. Literally. Didn't discriminate. He readily flashed his unmistakable talent, then his ass, alternately, likely valuing both the same. Sober, drunk, irrational, he made excuses as we do, then let it all go. It is always the restless, resourceful reader who plucks out the diamonds from the waste, plenty of both on every Bukowski page. At first, like a street fight, you can't turn away; but later you do just that. He doesn't read as well later. The redundant victim crap gets weaker, familiar darkness now a bit too comfortable for his pained words. Nothing is fair or meant to be. That's all just an ugly myth of lies. Bukowski tallied up his bad breaks, and created many himself. That's a personal math of self-destruction only he could decipher. The notion of winners and losers gets confused, people aren't that different after all. No one lives on. No one escapes to tell the tale, And anyway, to whom shall it be told? All end up atop the big heap
