thoughts while having a sandwich and coffee at 12:45 p.m. at a local cafe:

a certain cleverness, a certain brightness but no madness, at
least not madness in its best full-blown
gamble
and maybe the energy is just not there anymore, maybe
not only   is the air polluted, maybe the brain waves have been
lessened, maybe the structure of the human spirit has been
brought around to this dim finality of
zero
where anybody who appears half-right (just a touch of it) is
almost always elevated to the
hero-leader position.

it is more and more difficult–no, it’s just damned
impossible–to accept and admire those of us who are
put forward as great in our times.
these
are suspect.
of nobility
of originality
of even
a simple goodness.

bones and bones and bones
moving under the sun

they say that nothing is wasted
either that
or
it all is.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1985
Source
Original manuscript