Bukowski the Buddhist

Here's one of our favorite Bukowski poems, one where he lets down his guard ever so slightly to reveal that maybe he doesn't think life is a total crock of shit you'd be better off blacked out for, or at least that there's something to the whole thing:

as Buddha smiles

the ladies in blue and green and red,
the ladies in all their colors,
circle about.


the is nothing quite like
the arrogance of a
beginning writer
unless it is the conceit
of
a successful
one.


anger
is but a mask
that covers
nothing.


looking at her
sitting at the bar

she's the best thing
in sight:

silent, blazing,
nowhere.


the same sun
mixed and grinding
dancing toward what's left of your
mind.


I keep pondering the
imponderable.
Adam and Eve without belly buttons?
and if so, why?


at times
small children
wake up screaming
as something
leaps toward them
that they have never
seen
before.


if we can laugh, fine.
if we've got to cry, we've
got to cry.


summer followed summer
flea fucked flea
as my parents
prepared themselves for an
early grave.


the 3 a.m.
radio sings
as a
squadron
of diminutive
flying bugs now
rush in to
keep me
company.


as the swans circle
the truly damned are the
truly talented
as the swans circle
the truly talented are the
truly damned
as the swans circle.


it's easier
to write a symphony
than it is to love
and respect
your neighbor.


head down
sitting by the
fireplace
staring at my
shoes
as the wife tells me
how well I'm
doing.


anybody can be a genius
at 25. at 50, it takes
some
doing.


I think of Li Po
so
many centuries ago
drinking his wine
writing his poems
then
setting them
on fire
and sailing them
down the river
as the emperor
wept.


I light another cigarette
and wait patiently for lady
luck to
arrive.


we've just got to get rid of
all those poor souls
who eat pizza and go to
baseball games.


I shot the cat
stole a webster's dictionary
and ate a green apple.


the same sun
mixed and grinding
dancing toward what's left of your
mind.


O my God
all that blue sky
senseless


I take my prickly heart and
throw it away
as far into the dark as possible and
laugh.


I am
like a bug
a dog
a flower.


the knife cuts into the
sun.
the plate
breaks.
the cat yawns.


the once young
hero has grown
old
as Buddha
smiles.




An interesting, tragic fellow, Charles Bukowski. Favorite stanza, anyone?