so i’m sitting outside in the heat watching paper wasps dip into the bird bath and head into the holes in the side of the gas grill again. i’ll let them work all day building their perfect little hexagonal condos then when dusk is approaching i’ll light the gas and incinerate their little development to get the grill good and hot for red hot juicy steaks. i just love destroying their little plans. chalk up another victory for dim-witted black bears.
somehow this reminds me of Charles Bukowski….
the poetry game
the boys
are playing the poetry game
again
putting down
meaningless lines
and
passing them off as art
again.
the boys
are on the telephone
again
writing letters
again
to the publishers and
editors
telling them
who to edit and who to
publish.
the boys
know that either you
belong or you
don’t.
there’s a way to do it
you see
and
only a few know how to
do it
the right way.
all the others
are out
and
if you don’t know
who’s out
or
who’s in
well
the boys
will tell you
again.
the boys
have been around a
long time:
for a couple of
centuries
at least.
and before some of
the old boys
die
they pass their wisdom on
to the younger
boys
so they can put down
meanningless lines
and
pass them off as art
again.
Charles Bukowski – from The Flash of Lightening Behind The Mountain
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