Flock Of Amazing Poems

Fingernails; Nostrils; Shoelaces

By Charles Bukowski

the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures;

Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job

as a waitress; and

the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he

giggled up through the

soot.

I walked miles through the city and recognized

nothing as a giant claw ate at my

stomach while the inside of my head felt

airy as if I was about to go

mad.

it's not so much that nothing means

anything but more that it keeps meaning

nothing,

there's no release, just gurus and self-

appointed gods and hucksters.

the more people say, the less there is

to say.

even the best books are dry sawdust.

I watch the boxing matches and take copious

notes on futility.

then the gate springs open again

and there are the beautiful silks

and powerful horses riding

against the sky.

such sadness: everything trying to

break through into

blossom.

every day should be a miracle instead

of a machination.

in my hand rests the last bluebird.

the shades roar like lions and the walls

rattle, dance around my

head.

then her eyes look at me, love breaks my

bones and I

laugh.