....

Madness?
Sure. What isn't madness? Isn't Life madness? We are all
wound-up like toys ... a few winds of the spring, it runs down,
and that's it ... and we walk around and presume things, make
plans, elect governors, mow lawns ... Madness, surely, what ISN'T madness?


....


Small houses and courts with mail boxes full of spiders, mailboxes hanging by one nail, old women inside rolling cigarettes and chewing tobacco and humming to their canaries and watching you, an idiot lost in the rain.



....



One can never be sure whether it's good poetry or bad acid



....



Bukowski, you are one amazing motherfucker.