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Dumplyn McCool's blog: "Bukowski"

created on 12/22/2008  |  http://fubar.com/bukowski/b267162

What Can We Do?

at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity. some understanding and, at times, acts of courage but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't have too much. it is like a large animal deep in sleep and almost nothing can awaken it. when activated it's best at brutality, selfishness, unjust judgments, murder. what can we do with it, this Humanity? nothing. avoid the thing as much as possible. treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious and mindless. but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect itself from you. it can kill you without cause. and to escape it you must be subtle. few escape. it's up to you to figure a plan. I have met nobody who has escaped. I have met some of the great and famous but they have not escaped for they are only great and famous within Humanity. I have not escaped but I have not failed in trying again and again. before my death I hope to obtain my life.

How is Your Heart?

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.

Consumation of Grief

I even hear the mountains the way they laugh up and down their blue sides and down in the water the fish cry and the water is their tears. I listen to the water on nights I drink away and the sadness becomes so great I hear it in my clock it becomes knobs upon my dresser it becomes paper on the floor it becomes a shoehorn a laundry ticket it becomes cigarette smoke climbing a chapel of dark vines. . . it matters little very little love is not so bad or very little life what counts is waiting on walls I was born for this I WAS BORN TO HUSTLE ROSES DOWN THE AVENUES OF THE DEAD.
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