the rock

I will not name this poet although his blood red and dark
words indented themselves all through me and still
do.
in mid-life and later on he became and remained a complete
recluse.
he spoke to no one and was seen by very few.
his work and his life appeared to be as one.

it was not until after his death that I read his book of
Collected Letters and these
pandered to university powers and publishing
forces.
there was letter after letter of
beckoning and
posturing, of
obeisance and
compromise.

it hardly seemed the same man.
maybe it wasn’t, I thought, maybe somebody   wrote those
letters for him
and then
they were published.

in reality, though, I knew that he had written
them.

how often our idols fall
until soon
there are none
left.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1983