My life is jammed up. That's right, jammed up like an old machine. Jammed up like an old turntable I found that needs to be lubed and cleaned so it can once more spin happy songs. This metaphor runs through my head as I pace back and forth. I need, need, need to rid this angst. This creative, life-living angst. That's why I'm going to the balcony. The glass door is tight, it too needs to be lubed. Tomorrow I'll get to it. I'm looking to the sky, now. Brilliant blue, soft white clouds. But the emotional confusion still runs through me. I'm going to say it, I'm going to scream to the sun, the God of radiant fire: "Charles Bukowski, where are you?"
What's this? The clouds are turning grey. The clouds are closing in on one another. Oh my, a giant wind. The smell of Jim Beam.
"I've been busy, I'll see you soon."
This second I heard the voice of Bukowski.
Oh, no. The rumbling sound of an ethereal belch and flatulence. I got to go back inside. Hope the Ghost of Charles Bukowski comes by soon. That way I can bring calm to my warring self.
I Wish I'd Written This
4 hours ago