Today I sat in the sun on my front porch reading Bukowski while I waited for my family to return home from the beach. I decided to stay home and take some alone-time, knowing that I would have few breaks in the upcoming week. Usually the mothers I know wait too long before taking a break. We all hate to miss fun family-time activities. It's hard to make the right choice sometimes. Below is the first poem I opened up too. I thought it was wonderful. He wrote this near the end of his life. (I am a huge fan.)
Small Talk by Charles Bukowski
all right, while we are gently celebrating tonight
and while crazy classical music leaps at me from
my radio, I light a fresh cigar
and realize that I am still very much alive and that
the 21st centry is almost upon me!
I walk slowly now toward 5AMN this dark night
my 5 cats have been in and out, looking after
me, I have petted them, spoken to them, they,
are full of their own private fears wrought by previous
centuries of cruelty and abuses
but I think they love me as mush as they
can, anyhow, I am trying to say here
is that writing is just as exciting and mad and
just as big a gamble for me as it ever was, because Death
after all these years
walks around in the room with me now and speaks softly,
asking, do you still that you are a genuine
writer? are you pleased with what you've done?
listen, let me have one of those
cigars.
help yourself, motherfucker, I say.
Death lights up and we site quietly for a time.
I can feel him here with me.
don't you long for the ferocity
of youth? He finally asks.
not so much, I say.
but don't you regret those things
that have been lost?
not at all, I say.
don't you miss, He asks slyly, the young girls
climbing through your window?
all they brought was bad news, I tell him.
but the illusion, He says, don't you miss the
illusion?
hell yes, don't you? I ask.
I have no illusions, He says sadly.
sorry, I forgot about that,I say, then walk
to the window
unafraid and strangely satisfied
to watch the warm dawn
unfold.
