the gas line is leaking, the bird is out of the cage, the skyline is
dotted with vultures; Benny got off the stuff and Betty got a job as a
waitress. the chimney sweep was quite delicate and giggled up through the
soot. I walked miles through the city and saw nothing as a giant claw ate
at my stomach and the inside of my head felt airy as if I were 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, stupid intellectuals. the more people say, the less there
is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust to the brain. I watch the
boxing matches and take notes on futility. the gate springs open again and
there are the beautiful silks riding against the sky. such a sadness:
everything trying to break through into blossom. every day should be a
miracle instead of a machination. in my hand is the last bluebird. the
shades roar like lions and the walls rattle, dance above my head. the eyes
look at me, love breaks my bones and I laugh.
-- Bukowski, Charles. "Fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces."