words for you

red dogs of green hell, this
subdivided substance of
myself–

what crap is this I’m writing
here?

it’s so easy to fall into
poetic phoniness

almost all art is reamed with
a kind of poetic
phoniness:

painting
sculpting
the stage
music

what is this foolish
strutting about that
we do?

we cover everything with this
special preciousness

all we have to say is what
needs to be said

of course
the fact is
that there is very little to
say

so we must dress up our
non-sayings
in a seeming look
so that they may appear
important
or maybe even a bit
truthful.

what crap is this I’m writing
here?

what crap is this that you’re
reading here?

it’s no worse than the rest

probably even a little
better.

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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.