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Fingernails, Nostrils, Shoelaces
by
Charles Bukowski
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the gas line is leaking, the bird is out of the cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures; Benny got off the stuff and Betty got a job as a waitress. the chimney sweep was quite delicate and giggled up through the soot. I walked miles through the city and saw nothing as a giant claw ate at my stomach and the inside of my head felt airy as if I were about to go mad. it's not so much that nothing means anything but more that it keeps meaning nothing, there's no release, just gurus and self- appointed gods and hucksters, stupid intellectuals. the more people say, the less there is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust to the brain. I watch the boxing matches and take notes on futility. the gate springs open again and there are the beautiful silks riding against the sky. such a sadness: everything trying to break through into blossom. everyday should be a miracle instead of a machination.
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