Friday, November 25, 2011

Bukowski



died 9 april 1553


in bed with the flu and reading Rabelais
as the cat snores
the bathroom toilet
hisses
and my eyes burn.

I will put Rabelais down
and blink.
this is what
writers do
to each other.

for him, I
substitute
a tab of
vitamin C.

if we could only swallow
death
like that (I think we
can)
or that death would
swallow us
like that (I think it
does).

life is not what
we think it
is, it's only what we
imagine it to
be

and for us
what we imagine
becomes
mostly so

I imagine myself
rid of this
flu.

I see myself parading the
sidewalks again amongst the
sharks
of this world . . .

meanwhile, the cat, like most other
things, pushes too
close;
I move him
gently away; thinking, Rabelais
you were a
mighty mighty interesting
fellow.

then I stretch out as the ceiling
watches me and
waits.


From THE CONTINUAL CONDITION

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