spark

I'm here, yes I am. Here on the fringe, outside the bright lights and neon reflection. Drunk on red wine and alone in a warm, empty room of January night. Warm, you ask? Yes, 63 degrees and raining in winter. Rain. It placates and lulls and stirs my passion. Passion reigned in like horses at the gates. Drink helps to wash it away, temporarily - like the rain. Wash away conflict and indecision and all that self-flagellation of the mind.

And I am going to post a Charles Bukowski poem again, whether you, my unknown readers, like it or not. Because he runs in the blood. Because he was a scarred warrior and a survivor and genius and he deserves tribute. Because only he has ever been able to reflect my moods and emotions with any degree of accuracy when I need it.

So I pour more wine. I scowl to hide my ache. I clench one fist, and with the other I raise my lonely, half-filled glass to the ceiling, to the wet sky, to the flaxen heavens, and I thank Bukowski for helping me survive with his words.

Who the hell is going to save me? "You're going to have to save yourself." My thoughts, as I picture the drugged, the drunken, the diseased, and the derelicts, and I drink to them, as well.

From "The Last Night of the Earth Poems":

"Spark" by Charles Bukowski

I always resented all the years, the hours, the
minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it
actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me
dizzy and a bit crazy -- I couldn't understand the
murdering of my years
yet my fellow workers gave no signs of
agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and
seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as
the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.
the work pounded them to nothingness, they were
scooped-out and thrown away.

I resented each minute, every minute as it was
mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotonous ever-
structure.

I considered suicide.
I drank away my few leisure hours.

I worked for decades.

I knew that I was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become
them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.
it needn't be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it.

I think I did.
I'm glad I did.
what a lucky god damned
thing.