waste

“boring,” he said from his deathbed,
“I bored everybody, even
myself.
I wasted it, I was a fake, a word-
blower.   all too fancy.   all too
full of tricks.”

“oh Master,” said the young poet,
“that’s not true at all, not at
all.”

“all too true,” said the old man,
“my work was over blown
rubbish.”

the young poet did not believe
these words
he could not, he would not
for he too was writing
rubbish.

but still he asked the old man,
“but Master, what is to be
done?”

“begin at the beginning,”
said the old man.

a few days after that
he died.

he had not asked to see the
young poet anyhow.

now that didn’t matter
either.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1992
Source
Original manuscript