Wednesday, January 02, 2008

566. one for Sherwood Anderson - Charles Bukowski

sometimes I forget about him and his peculiar
innocence, almost idiotic, awkward and mawkish.
he liked walking over bridges and through cornfields.
tonight I think about him, the way the lines were,
one felt space between his lines, were,
and felt space between his lines, air
and he told it so the lines remained
carved there
something like van Gogh.
he took his time
looking about
sometimes running to save something.
then at other times giving it all away
he didn't understand Hemingway's neon tattoo,
found Faulkner much too clever.
he was a midwestern hick
he took his time.
he was as far away from Fitzgerald as he was
from Paris

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