Bukowski Archives
Page 1 of 3 »I missed Bukowski's birthday (again) earlier this week. Here's a poem to make up for it.
Eat
talking of death
is like talking of
money -
we neither know the
price or the
worth,
yet looking down at my hands
I can guess
a little.
man's made for guessing and for
failure
and women
for the rest.
when the time comes
I hope I can remember
eating a pear.
we are sick now
with so many dead
dogs
skulls
armies
flowers
continents.
there is a fight -
this is it:
against the mechanics
of the thing.
eat a good pear today
so tomorrow
you can
remember
it.
-- Charles Bukowski
I'm ashamed to say that I didn't even realize that today was the fourth birthday in the life and time of information leafblower dot com slash blog until Peabs reminded me of this yesterday. He knows because it's also his birthday. So hey, have a happy one and do it up bro!
Since it's the weekend, here's some Buk to celebrate.
writing
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from falling.
the hordes from
closing
in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
-- Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from his book Betting On The Muse.
4/16/92 12:39 a.m.
...Anyway, a particularly bad day. The system that usually worked didn't work. The gods shuffle the deck.Time is mutilated and you are a fool. But time is made to be wasted. What are you going to do about it? You can't always be roaring full steam. You stop and you go. You hit a high and then you fall into a black pit. Do you have a cat? Or cats? They sleep baby. They can sleep 20 hours a day and they look beautiful. They know there's nothing to get excited about. The next meal. And a little something to kill now and then. When I'm being torn by forces, I just look at one or more of my cats. There are 9 of them. I just look at one of them sleeping or half-sleeping and I relax. It chills me out. For a while anyhow. Then my wires get crossed and I have to do it all over again. I can't understand writers that stop writing. How do they chill out?
-- Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from his book The Captain Is Out To Lunch And The Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship
More Bukowski here.
like in a chair the color of the sun
as you listen to lazy piano music
and the aircraft overhead are not
at war.
where the last drink is as good as
the first
and you realized that the promises
you made yourself were
kept.
that's plenty.
that last: about the promises:
what's not so good is that the few
friends you had are
dead and they seem
irreplaceable.
as for women, you didn't know enough
early enough
and you knew enough
too late.
and if more self analysis is allowed: it's
nice that you turned out well-
honed,
that you arrived late
and remained generally
capable.
outside of that, not much to say
except you can leave without
regret.
until then, a bit more amusement,
a bit more endurance,
leaning back into it.
like the dog who got across
the busy street:
not all of it was good
luck.
-- written by Charles Bukowski, taken from the book what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
DCeiver just pointed out that I missed Bukowski's birthday yesterday. And right he is. Apparently I did the same thing last year.
Oops.
Well, that's the bad news. The good news is that Factotum (caution:audio) opens this weekend in some markets. It hits DC next Friday. E Street Cinema anyone? Beers beforehand, obvs.
The movie has been panned in pretty much every review that I've read, but it's not like that will stop me from seeing it.
Since I don't have a poem for you, check out some quotes over at Wikiquote.
Of course you can always check out my Bukowski archives.
Opening August 18th in NYC, followed by a wider (hopefully national) release.
Sweet. [thx goldenfiddle]
PS - Massive Attack proper US tour! w00t!
murdered in the alley of the land
frost-bitten against flagpoles
pawned by females
educated in the dark for the dark
vomiting into plugged toilets
in rented rooms full of roaches and mice
no wonder we seldom sing
day noon or night
the useless wars
the useless years
the useless loves
and they ask us,
why do you drink so much?
well, I suppose if the days were made
to be wasted
the years and the loves were made
to be wasted
we can't cry, and it helps to laugh -
it's like letting out
dreams, ideals,
poisons
don't ask us to sing,
laughing and singing to us,
you see, it is a terrible joke
Christ should have laughed on the cross,
it would have petrified his killers
now there are more killers than ever
and I write poems for them.
-----------
Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from his book Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame
the dead flowers of myself
bulls strut in pinwheel glory,
rockets stun the sky,
but I don't know
quite what to make
of the dead flowers
of myself,
whether to dump them
out of the bowl
or
press them between
these blank pages
and go on;
well, all grief comes down
to hard death
and weeping finally ends.
thank the god
who made
it.
-- Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from the book Betting On the Muse
----------
Sorry for being MIA last week. My aunt died very unexpectedly early in the week and my mind was elsewhere. Ms. Smith was nice enough to accompany me to NC this weekend for the funeral.
I haven't posted any Buk since last August. I'm seriously slacking.
Back to work tomorrow.
Ummmmmmmmbest? How did this happen and me not know about it? OK, who can get me one of these posters ASAP? [via goldenfiddle]
How a Web site helped the Bucks acquire an All-Star.
Police force Brendan Benson to play the last half of his Berlin gig acoustically after saying his gig was "too loud".
The Artic Monkeys do something to merit those Oasis comparisons.
Speaking of, Noel must be promoting a new single or something.
Guero remix album tracklisting.
Thank you for setting the record straight. I have problems with that too. Great post.
From today's "Make 'Em Say 'Duh'" newsfile; iPod nano lawsuit will only benefit attorneys.
Hey, I almost forgot! I have a contest for you all. Supergrass just released their latest record, Road to Rouen, and I'm really digging it. To celebrate, I'm giving away the following:
GRAND PRIZE: Limited edition tinymeat ipod case, a copy of Road to Rouen, magnets, pins and a "Kiss of Life" CD single.
Runner Up Prize: a copy of Road to Rouen, magnets, pins and a "Kiss of Life" CD single.
All you have to do is drop me a line and tell me what Supergrass video saw the group imagined as giant muppets. Winner will be announced in two weeks.
To tide you over here are some Supergrass links and videos:
Road to Rouen album website
"St. Petersburg" video Windoze / Real / glorious Quicktime
Finally, here is video of the band performing on Leno.
I also remembered my Forgotten Fovorite today.
Lush: Sweetness and Light (MP3)
I heart Lush and this is one of my favorite songs of theirs. Quoth the bar manager at Saint Ex when I played this last week. "Wait, is this Lush? Fucking Sweet." Indeed. And while we all know Miki was the really, really hot one (I totally have a thing for pink hair), any Lush fan worth their salt knows that Emma wrote the best songs, like "Sweetness and Light" (lyrics). Remember when VW used this in a Jetta ad? This is from the album Gala, which was the band's first three EP's all packaged together. I think Spooky is still my favorite album of theirs. Buy some Lush at Amazon.
My camera shipped last night and travelled from Maspeth, NY to Saddlebrook, NJ to Harrisburg, PA to Laurel, MD in the span of about 15 hours. Unfortunately, it's not scheduled to be delivered until Monday. Oh well.
40,000 flies
torn by a temporary wind
we come back together again
check walls and ceilings for cracks and
the eternal spiders
wonder if there will be one more
woman
now
40,000 flies running the arms of my
soul
singing
I met a million dollar baby in a
5 and 10 cent
store
arms of my soul?
flies?
singing?
what kind of shit is
this?
it's so easy to be a poet
and so hard to be
a man.
- written by Charles Bukowski, taken from his book Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Start To Bleed A Bit.
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