Consummation Of Grief

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

by Charles Bukowski

Comments (9)

Amusing poem, he was a serious poet...........a relationship master and a perfectionist.
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead. Wow, that last line blows me away.
Does anyone have an impression of what what counts is waiting on walls means.
That last line hits hard.
The parallelism of sentences and repitition of words replaces the need for traditional rhyme.
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