BLUEBIRD
Bukowski wrote about The Bluebird
Buried in his heart:
Anesthetized with alcohol,
Encrusted in cigarette's ash
And bound up in the tight bands of
Despair.
In the solitude
Of the early morning hour
And the dim bulb swinging,
The bird slipped free,
Erupted,
And filled stained white walls
With song.
And, oh, how sweetly it sang.
But that was for him,
Alone…
Yet,
Now and then,
I hear a faint and tinny warbling
(Like radio waves
Resonating
In teeth's fillings)
Or the tinny tinkling of little bells
And something loosens in my chest
And stirs.
And, oh, how sweetly it stirs.
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"I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head... and looking up I noticed I was late"
ReplyDeleteTruer words were never spoken. The funny thing is, I remember as a child, first discovering the Beatles, how that made me feel... very cool, or as if I'd tapped into something profound. Then later it felt familiar, like the smells of home. Now, though, those words seem to describe my life in an all too familiar way. Familiarity breeds contempt, right? And so it goes.
Comments?! We don't need no stinking comments?
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