Bukowski

I don't know shit about Bukowski. I just know that he makes me want to sit at a keyboard and bleed.

I did read Hemingway and I know that once I found him I found that we Americans in writing did have a voice, and not that convolution of Edith or the undisectable heart of darkness. Faulkner is a real G, but Fitzgerald just a fop. Carver.

To sit at the typewriter and bleed would just be to let it out and though that's what I'm doing now I know that I am not bleeding. Tapping into that vein and creating truth in prose and words and stories and imagination is art. Art defines itself.

Poetry is prose. It's only prose that ever fails to be poetry.

I recently saw a piece on a glass door that proclaimed that art is the center of the real world. I believe that that is true. We humans only have a world at all within the bounds of what art encompasses. Exceed those bounds and it is nasty, brutish, and short. To live is human, to behold is divine.