This is my second attempt at tackling modern poetry. And I have to say that I am impressed, shocked and at the same time not so surprised. These are the ramblings of an old man, which I particularly enjoy. Wars, whores, and living alone, Charles Bukowski was not afraid of himself, he was not ashamed to simply be who he was. His poetry is his heart, his self. He doesn't try to impress with big words or long narratives that exemplify intelligence. He just simply is. And I simply enjoyed it.
But be forewarned, Charles can be pessimistic to the point of unbearable. I kept plenty of lighthearted material close by for those times when I just had to roll my eyes and gently lay down this sad book and grab up something to make me smile. Though I'm not as down-hearted a soul as Bukowski I respect and admire his work and enjoy it all the same.
jlw
