me and Faulkner

sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it, but
most repeat the same theme over and over again, it’s
as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange
and odd and important to them, it’s done by everybody
because everybody is of a different stripe and form
and each must work out what is before them
over and over again because
that is their personal tiny miracle
their bit of luck.

like now as like before and before I have been slowly
drinking this fine red wine and listening to symphony after
symphony from this black radio to my left.

some symphonies remind me of certain cities and certain rooms,
make me realize that certain people now long dead were able to
transgress graveyards.

and traps and cages and bones and limbs.

people who broke through with joy and madness and with
insurmountable force.

in tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles.

and even now after decades of listening I still am able to hear
a new work never heard before that is totally
bright, a fresh-blazing sun.

there are countless sub-stratas of rising surprise for the
human firmament.

music has an expansive and endless flow of ungodly

writers are confined to the limit of sight and feeling upon the
page while musicians leap into unrestricted

right now it’s just old Tchaikovsky moaning and groaning his
way through symphony #5
but it’s just as good as when I heard it.

I haven’t heard one of my favorites, Eric Coates, for some time
but I know that if I keep drinking the good red and listening
that he will be along.

there are others, many others.

and so
this is just another poem about drinking and listening to

repeat, right?

but look at Faulkner, he not only said the same thing over and
over but he said the same

so, please, let me boost these giants of our lives
once more:   the classical composers of our time and
of times past.

it has kept the rope from my throat.

maybe it will loosen

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript