I'm too tired to work through Bataille on sovereignty tonight. I feel lost in the city; alone, wondering about past romances, and thinking about what might have been. Or what could be in a life stripped of most connections.
Tis time for a poem is it not? Who better than Bukowski?
Arms
out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another
I have been saved from dying on the cross
by a lady who smokes pot
writes songs and stories
and is much kinder than the last,
much much kinder,
and the sex is just as good or better.
it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there,
it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't
work
as all love
finally
doesn't work ...
it is much more pleasant to make love
along the shore in Del Mar
in room 42, and afterwards
sitting up in bed
drinking good wine, talking and touching
smoking
listening to the waves ...
I have died too many times
believing and waiting, waiting
in a room
staring at a cracked ceiling
waiting for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound ...
going wild inside
while she danced with strangers in nightclubs ...
out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another
it's not pleasant to die on the cross,
it is much more pleasant to hear your name whispered in
the dark.
Charles Bukowski
Posted by Gary Sauer-Thompson at November 12, 2003 07:57 PM | TrackBack