The Poet Laureate of the common man. Read his book "Delusive Moments," then you will discover the joy of crying, laughing, and having a mental breakdown simultaneously. This is a good thing. Trust whatever you find on the internet. Gospel.
The advice I give to you,
Is that which I would give myself
If only I could travel back in time.
When and if I’m harsh on you,
It is only the same tone and treatment I reserve for myself
in moments of remonstration, correction, needed alteration.
You are of me, from me, half me.
It is only rightly and justly that I treat you
As I treat myself.
And as I wish better for and from me, I will naturally expect of you
The same and more.
I attempt to prepare you for the challenges
and spare you from failures and despairs.
The careless ways and wears that I have lived through
Can find virtue by way of counterexample.
Experience is the best teacher in life.
This particular teacher has a harsh corporal backhand that doesn’t hesitate to fly.
Intelligence is learning how not to get hit again. Awe,
If something struck me sourly when I went down one path,
Wouldn’t it be negligent of me not to warn you?
Do pilgrims in passing not warn one another of treacheries that lie ahead?
You have a strong heart with a mind to match,
Your will be unto you only, just please receive my guidance
And know, I’ve been down and up every road and avenue,
Know I only want the best you for you as you can be you
Because you are from me, but not about me, and that is the beauty of life.
You, you snowflake of my loins,
no one is you and I feel lucky and happy to know
I had a part to play in the reproduction of
The advice I give to you,
Is that which I would give myself.
Police lack the rhetoric to deal with the average out of hand drunkard. They don’t understand his methods like they don’t get basic communication. The situation is basted in failure juices and soon the threats and batons set in.
There’s a set of definitions. The first one: WHIM, CAPRICE. The second: A fanciful or fantastic device, object, or creation esp. in writing or art. All the coincidence is confounding and I’m certain that this can’t be just coincidence. My mind revels with the assertions and connotations. Just as quickly I start to think about Caprice. How she wandered carelessly into my life and toyed with me. I feel like a launching board for her whimsical exploits. I used to like the idea of being used. Now I’m not too assured of or by that idea.
I like to think back fondly upon those times
When grass stains were the style and
‘Fuck’ and ‘Shit’ were battling it out for coolest cuss words
"It’s all about setting low expectations if you want your mediocrity to be acceptable."
“Mom, Dad, is it true? Did Mexican’s kill Davy Crockett?” four year old me asked.
“Yes,” my dad said before he went on to clarify that the movie leaves out a bunch of political and societal implications and ramifications. All I ever heard or understood was that Mexicans killed Davy Crockett. Davy ‘King of the wild frontier’ Crockett, my hero, slain by Mexicans—that’s all I heard. That was all that mattered.
But damn, this is the kinda dirty that I’m not sure I like, but makes me smirk nonetheless. I guess this is the kind of satisfaction that a dirty old man like me should look forward to. Imagine what it’ll be like when I’m actually an old man and not just dirty. Damn it, St. Bukowski, you’ll have nothing on me in terms of old man dirtiness, though you’ll more than likely have me beat in terms of literary success and acceptance.
Charles Bukowski, my patron saint.