2 Henry Miller paintings and etc.

Charles Bukowski

drunkenness can have its advantages, like now, sitting alone in this
room, one a.m. from the window I can see the lights of the city, well,
some of them, and I look at them and become conscious of my hands, my
feet, my back, my neck, and a small turning in the mind: being near
70 gives a long look back: the cities, the women, the jobs, the good
times and the bad and it seems very odd to still be alive, puffing on
a cigarette, then lifting this tall-stemmed wine glass while there is
a wife downstairs who says she loves me, and there are 5 cats, and now
my radio is blasting Bach.

drunkenness can have its advantages: I feel as if I have passed through
5,000 wars but now there are just these walls holding me together while
there are 2 Henry Miller paintings downstairs.
I look back through my life and I do suppose that the most ridiculous
thing I ever imagined was that I was a tough guy--I never could fight
worth a fucking lick, I only thought I could and it cost me many times,
but drunkenness can have its advantages: one a.m. confessionals toward
the bartering hordes.

yet
who cares?
the final vote is not yet in.

I am tough.
tough enough to die well.

I look at the lights of the city, exhale a puff of blue smoke, lift my
tall-stemmed wine glass, toast what is left of myself, of what is left
of the world:
across continents of pain
I slice through like the last bluebird
winging it
dumbly.

 

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