Diktet he wrote in lonely blood fra diktsamlingen Mocking Bird Wish Me Luck av Charles Bukowski
at a friend's house
I find a black book by the typer:
Jeffers': Be Angry at the Sun.
I think of Jeffers often, of his rocks and his hawks and his
Jeffers was a real loner.
yes, he had to write.
I try to think of loners who don't break out
in any fashion,
and I think, no, that's not strong,
somehow, that's dead.
Jeffers was alive and a loner and
he made his statements.
his rocks and his hawks and his isolation
he wrote in lonely blood
a man trapped in a corner
but what a corner
fighting down to the last mark
"I've built my rock," he sent the message to
the lovely girl who came to his door,
"you go build yours."
this was the same girl who had screwed Ezra,
and she wrote me that Jeffers sent her away
BE ANGRY AT THE SUN.
Jeffers war a rock who was not dead.
his book sits to my left now as I type.
I think of all his people chrashing down
hanging themselves, shooting themselves,
taking poisons . . .
locked away against an unbearable humanity.
Jeffers was like his people:
he demanded perfection and beauty
and it was not there
in human form. he found it in non-human
forms. I've run out of non-human forms,
I'm angry at Jeffers, no,
I'm not. and if the girl comes to my door
I'll send her away too. after all,
who wants to follow old