These poems are part of an archive of unpublished work that Charles Bukowski left to be published after his death.
Still love his deadpan voice.
Makes me wonder what it is like to write (poetry) on a typewriter.
It makes me starting to see the poetry in spilled salt, in the strong gusts of winds that whip the unfamiliar rain around, in everything.
... that their
morning eagerness
means that
they retired early
and thus wasted the
preceding
night
