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.
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.