First in an occasional series: some thoughts inspired by the poems of Charles Bukowski, or Alas, poor Yorick

In “what a writer” Bukowski begins

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word

Defunct can stand in for death. Death is mystical, yet familiar. Too familiar to contemplate. Now defunct. There’s a word to paint a pretty picture. Death is somehow not final. We can be resurrected (they believe), we can rise again (they believe). Death is a way station. Death is a short commute to oblivion. Now what more can be said about the state of de-funked-ness?

gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

on the farm the chickens ate the vegetables and the skunks ate the chickens. then the skunks died. then the farmer offed hisself. and started a worm farm. He was dead. But not defunct. Yet.

one poet,
like
that

We can get up in the face of death and ask the question. We can play chess with Him like in that old black and white. Yes, we can ask the question

and what i want to know is

how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

Like
that

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