With Budweiser the only weapon neaby...

I think of Bukowski...he didn't pretend. He lived...he drank...he screwed...he cussed...and he wrote. Crude and clean and sleek lines. Readable. Beyond pretension, nudging nirvana with crudity, with humanity. Read him and know life...as it is, as most hope they never see.

Soon though comes the rage, an anger so hot the heart withers.

Enter Rimbaud. "Seasons In Hell" leaves me shaking with the horrors of deja vu gone bad. Rimbaud so vile, so anti-social, none could stand to be near him...yet what wonders he wrote.

And on like this it goes. One misfit after another. One alcoholic after another. Or opium addict. Or queer.

And they ALL cry their desperation, struggle for survival with their writing...writing always...recording...imagining...hurt so many times, they peer off the page with wide eyes and cowering hearts...born to a world not ready for them.