(no subject)
if morals are to be taken into question, Bukowski wasn't a great guy, he was a womanizer and an alcoholic and he smoked too much, and he was kind of bitter but I guess that is what it takes to write sometimes (maybe I should follow his lead since I'm no Miller, Williams, Shakespeare incarnate, especially by next Monday... nah)
during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment
and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
... yeah. also, without the help of the above, recently I have realized that if life were about feeling happy all the time, heroin would be legal and the entire world would be full of addicts, instead of strip malls we would have opium fields. (and life expectancy wouldn't be over twenty-five, and respect would be an archaic concept)
it bothers me how easy it is to avoid touching upon the hard things, every single day, every single day! I am kind of disappointed in myself. shoving things back into my throat and too far back into my head and too far down into my heart, practically into my stomach, makes for a gargantuan "ouch" on my psyche
during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment
and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
... yeah. also, without the help of the above, recently I have realized that if life were about feeling happy all the time, heroin would be legal and the entire world would be full of addicts, instead of strip malls we would have opium fields. (and life expectancy wouldn't be over twenty-five, and respect would be an archaic concept)
it bothers me how easy it is to avoid touching upon the hard things, every single day, every single day! I am kind of disappointed in myself. shoving things back into my throat and too far back into my head and too far down into my heart, practically into my stomach, makes for a gargantuan "ouch" on my psyche