Wabi Sabi

[I see the Name that poem thread, now. Consign this to that if you can, Mods] —Ed.

I can't remember the names of the Bukowskis I love best*. I mourn them.

Maybe you can fix my broken brain. There are two eternal monuments I remember more for their spirits than for their forms.

The first — a short one I thought was about his father, but could have been any charlatan. The man is a man of inaction, talking and planning, never doing. (I feel like the word trip or vacation is invoked. Possibly). And he dies that way. The poem ends there. Imagery might include a kitchen or a sink, or a stove or frying. The pathetic normalcy and predictability of the death itself.

The last — perhaps even shorter than the first. Also includes kitchen and sink imagery. (Faucets?) About the perfect and inviolate privacy of the inner self, forever accessible solely to "I." Phrased as an antagonism — them not being able to get to you.

Infinite good luck to anyone willing to remember for me.


Oh, and — about me. Another poking shoulder in the elevator.

*That's not true. The best line is, "As the spirit wanes the form appears."
 
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