now Ezra

you, more than anybody, knew what the
word was:    a trick, a toy, to be worked
at whim to fit fanciful patterns.
work it well enough
then profound or
seemingly profound meanings surfaced
page-wise.
but, essentially, it was shuck and jive
for you
just as it was for everybody
else.
there was nothing to say.
there never will be anything to say.
we live, we die, huh?
and are each caught, in between,
this way and that.
it’s pure crap to get slick about
all this.
we all come up short in the
saying.
the worst say it badly.
the luckiest say it a bit differently,
practiced in the gamble.
bored with what has preceded,
they just say nothing in a newer
way,
to hold that ground a decade or
two,
a century or two–who cares?–
to be
safely reserved in textbook
minds–
hardly a reward
for the simple hell of every
day living.

poetry is a lie.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1991
Source
Original manuscript