whatever augur gentleman bukowski's poesy inflicted upon the Promethean design, it will truly only begat a rejected glance from the portent-blacksmith himself; whatever truck-stop john, down-the-wrought-iron-girded-stairwell he has ascended into and found a spot a the bar that digests the perfect light so that he is left in darkness, bukowski has disappeared into, he most assuredly will gird every impulse to execrate curses against those who deem him Buddha and stew in his own knowledge that it is Judas whom he feels comfortable in dialing for to ask of him a ride into the outskirts so he can take a leak like a coyote, instead of aiming into a bowl and hoping the water bill was received and cashed in time.
that being said, i come to a dilemma: the novel i am writing is not enmeshed in a stalemate with my mental propulsion of its ossification, but it doesn't have the panoply with as much resound and heraldry as does the spooling of liturgy from the harmonics of Hildegard von Bingen. it doesn't LOOK how i want it to look, FEEL how i want it to feel, MOVE like i want it to move, but nonetheless, it feels RIGHT as if it is moving to the moire of its own template, disregarding my WANT.
the unclenching of H. Habilis into H. ergaster into H. erectus is a skeleton's fist, the world as such in symmetry and repose to its own birthing, than i let the diversion of my novel to its design. but i haven't been able to textually express the conundrum that so much of my writing has a similtude with this novel: the look, the feel, the movement is a lackluster dynamism and the force behind it all is my relenting. which is that not life? a complete unrelenting? force = empowerment = shedding power?
then i happened upon bukowski's poem "Cut While Shaving" and thanked the man for handling his own blade.
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right.
something flashed, something broke, something
I walked down the stairway and
then, by Judas, will i follow and go.
walk into it.
just walk into it.