the best often die by their own ha… just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody

I see old people on pensions in th… supermarkets and they are thin and… proud and they are dying they are starving on their feet an… nothing. long ago, among other lie…

I read that he lost a suitcase ful… train and that they never were rec… I can’t match the agony of this but the other night I wrote a 3—pa… upon this computer

you won’t see them often for wherever the crowd is they are not. those odd ones, not

the hearse comes through the room… the beheaded, the disappeared, the… mad. the flies are a glue of sticky pas… their wings will not

sway with me, everything sad— madmen in stone houses without doors, lepers steaming love and song frogs trying to figure

“what?” they say, “you got a computer?” it’s like I have sold out to the enemy. I had no idea so many

god I got the sad blue blues, this woman sat there and she said are you really Charles Bukowski?

Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated.

the illusion is that you are simpl… reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem.

I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.