Charles Bukowski

The Blackbirds Are Rough Today

Lonely as a dry and used orchard spread over the earth for use and surrender, shot down like an ex-pug selling dailies on the corner, taken by tears like an aging chorus girl who has gotten her last check. A hanky is in order, your lord, your worship. The blackbirds are rough today, like ingrown toenails in an overnight jail--- wine, wine, whine, the blackbirds run around and fly around harping about Spanish melodies and bones. And everywhere is nowhere--- the dream is as bad as flapjacks and flat tires: why do we go on with our minds and pockets full of dust like a bad boy just out of school--- you tell me, you who were a hero in some revolution, you who teach children, you who drink with calmness, you who own large homes and walk in gardens, you who have killed a man and own a beautiful wife. You tell me why I am on fire like old dry garbage. We might surely have some interesting correspondence. It will keep the mailman busy, and the butterflies and ants and bridges and cemeteries, the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics will still go on a while until we run out of stamps and/or ideas. Don't be ashamed of anything; I guess God meant it all like locks on doors.

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