bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

-excerpt from the poem "bluebird" by c. bukowski

i've been reading a lot of charles bukowski's work lately; prior to the past week or two i had always thought he was nothing more than an overrated alcoholic. i admit the morose duder has grown on me. i think it's his nack for stating things as they are, in a simple manner. drunk lush or not- his honesty, with no sugar coating involved, is admirable.

that's why we like him isn't it? he allows himself to be sad. telling us all of his secrets, because we can't face our own.

though there is one glaring fault. bukowski primarily focused on the dirty hole in the wall truths of being human, but he became so absorbed in downtrodden adaptations of the world around him that that was all he could see.

charlie boy, you should've listened to the beatles.
take those broken wings and learn to fly.
but it's too late now. you're dead.