Tuesday, February 15, 2005

"Bukowski's tigers? Wha...?"

An anonymous friend asks just what in the hell I was talking about in the "Deconstructing the Paul" post when I referred to "feline cousins of Bukowski's tigers."

Charles Bukowski was a poet whose poetry makes me not want to write poetry the same way this guy , this guy, and this guy make me not want to play guitar. I'm not sure what the rules are about republishing someone else's poetry in a blog, so hopefully the people who own the rights to the following poem don't get too pissed and decide to sue me. Better yet, hopefully they read the rest of the blog and offer me a gigantic advance for my debut novel.

For Jane, by Charles Bukowski

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.


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