I’ve got a fat book of Charles Bukowski poems resting by my bedside. Some nights out of the week, before bed, I’ll read a few and turn in. Now, I’m not much of a poem guy, but Bukowski’s poems are extensions of his stories: No bullshit or meddling in metaphors or even eloquence. Think of his work as for the Everyman. The blue-collar workers who get piss drunk after shifts. The guys roaming around the world, trying to carve up something resembling a life. It’s great stuff.
His poem “Air and Light and Time and Space”, which strangely has its own domain name and is available lawsuit-free here, speaks to every artist, musician and writer out there. Read it now. Then print it out and hang it by your work desk. There are no excuses for this thing we do*. It’s time to create, fuckers.
* Except for Sega every now and again.