Happy Birthday Bukowski

Charles Bukowski, one of the so-called "beat" poets: 1920 - 1994, would have been yesterday, age 87. A couple of his poems:

"MAN IN THE SUN" by Charles Bukowski

She reads to me from the New Yorker
which I don't buy, don't know
how they get in here, but it's
something about the Mafia
One of the heads of the Mafia
who ate too much and had it too easy
too many fine women patting his
walnuts, and he got fat sucking at good
cigars and young breasts and he
has these heart attacks - and - so
one day somebody is driving him
in his big car along the road
and he doesn't feel so good
and he asks the boy to stop and let
him out and the boy lays him out
along the road in the fine sunshine
and before he dies he says:
how beautiful life can be, and
then he's gone.
Sometimes you've got to kill 4 or 5
thousand men before you somehow
get to believe that the sparrow
is immortal, money is piss and
that you have been wasting your time.

"THE TRASH CAN" by Charles Bukowski

This is great, I just wrote two
poems I didn't like.
There is a trash can on this
computer.
I just moved the poems over
and dropped them into
the trash can.
They're gone forever, no
paper, no sound, no
fury, no placenta
and then
just a clean screen awaits you.
It's always better,
to reject yourself before
the editors do.
Especially on a rainy
night like this with
bad music on the radio.
And now--
I know what you're
thinking:
maybe he should have
trashed this
misbegotten one
also.
Ha, ha, ha,
ha.