A MAN FROM THE GREATEST GENERATION IN A DIFFERENT WAR

BUKOWSKI

Some poets have always found the material for their work from their personal suffering. I tried Bukowski's path for a long time myself, but there came a time when I said enough is enough. In fact, Bukowski came to a place where he also grew tired of writing his poetry on the bones of his psyche. I first wrote the following poem about myself, then I gave the nightmare back to Bukowski.

BUKOWSKI’S NIGHTMARE

Stuck between the gap of earth and sky,
He once reeled single in our afternoons.
While sun pinned shadow to his feet,
His seemed the only motion on the street.
Cling and move to cling again, he leaned
To each bare, solid thing along the way,
Pausing now and then to rest the errors
Of his feet, his clinging progress stopped.
There, holding to any solid post halfway
Between some mindless thing or other,
He'd note the shadow at his feet,
Its flatness, and the way it filled a crack.
Then memory with its awful motion would
Move again and press him to the nearest bar
Where no single shadow plagued his feet
But all was shadow which took all in,
And there was no, not even passing, rest
While he stood still and spoke with shadows

Out of noon and into evening.