Song for this softly-sweeping sorrow…

one must arise
above all this shit,
keep growing…
destiny is only a whore if we make her
let’s light lights
let’s suffer in the grand style,–
toothpick in mouth, grinning.
we can do it.
we were born strong and we will die
the manner of our living
like ocean liners in the fog…
thorns on roses…
blase boys trotting the parks in swim suits…
it has been very
our bones
like stems into the sky
will forever cry

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I want to bring all of Bukowski's poems online and make then freely available. This means hundreds of hours of work to retype over 1,000 of his poems from the original manuscripts. Your donations will help support this work.