A poem I liked by the one and only: Charles Bukowski.




the strongest of the strange

you won’t see them often

for wherever the crowd is

they

are not.

those odd ones, not

many

but from them

come

the few

good paintings

the few

good symphonies

the few

good books

and other

works.

and from the

best of the

strange ones

perhaps

nothing.

they are

their own

paintings

their own

books

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes I think

I see

them – say

a certain old

man

sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain

way

or

a quick face

going the other

way

in a passing

automobile

or

there’s a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-

girl

while packing

supermarket

groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some

time -

you will notice

a

lightning quick

glance

never seen

from them

before.

sometimes

you will only note

their

existence

suddenly

in

vivid

recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remembersuch a

one -

he was about

20 years old

drunk at

10 a.m.

staring into

a cracked

New Orleans

mirror

facing dreaming

against the

walls of

the world

where

did I

go?