regrets of a sort…

I’ve written all these
just using the language
I know
even when it became
laboriously near to
listening to your
neighbor
over the
backyard fence.

I like the language:
the curl of the
word
the sensation
of a
tasty
almost never-used
beauty
a near-virgin
word.

there are many
of them.

at times
I read the dictionary
marveling
at the totality of
the untouched
backlog.

there’s a force
there
properly used
would make
all I’ve said
almost
useless

yet
when I consider
the others
who have delved into this
backlog

the educated
the schooled
the
knowing?

it
doesn’t appear to
work
or have they
chosen
the wrong
words?
for fashion?
for dictate?

and without the
luck of taste
and
style?

whatever,
the users
have discouraged me
with
vocabulary
as if it were
a shield
for pretenders

and so
for the moment
I am caught
with this
left with
this

and since you
have come
this
far

so
are you.

let’s hope
we can all
recover from
this.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1982
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: