Thursday, June 19

Last night I found a couple volumes of Charles Bukowski in the library. I was in the basement searching for the one thin book of Eric Frank Russell stories in the whole collection, and I remembered that poetry is down there too, in probably the least accessible part of the whole building. So I went and found some.

His poetry repeats itself a lot. Some of it is too much alcohol soaked masturbation. But I don't mind. I am starting to know good poetry when I see it, some times. This stuff is, and it has about as much weight as anything put on paper ever does.

After reading some Rexroth, Sydney Lea and the better bits of E. E. Cummings and some Bukowski, rhyme schemes and all that jazz have started to seem annoying and false, unless maybe someone is singing them. I suppose I will get over that, eventually, and look again for the real stuff in more ornate language. It probably has something to say too.

Just not right now.