Notes of a GenX Senior

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

"To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Monday, February 10, 2014

Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Two Poems Bukowski

gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.

Charles Bukowski

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon.

Charles Bukowski

Two Poems Bukowski

gamblers all

Charles Bukowski

What A Writer

Charles Bukowski

Saturday, December 28, 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....

Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.