Wednesday, October 29, 2008
One of my co-workers stopped by to report the ostentatious displays of notice-me hipsterism at the coffee shop across the street, particularly a skinny kid in sunglasses holding up his Nietzsche paperback for the room to see him reading it, so I figured I could at least one-up that by blogging a Charles Bukowski poem of which the Brahms Viola Sonata in F minor, Op, 120, No. 1 reminded me. No really, it really did make me think of it. I'm just that deep. Serious, y'all.
And I have some William Burroughs quotes at the ready, should a full on hipster-lit-nerd cliché battle ensue. Just sayin...
"Friends with the Darkness" by Charles Bukowski
I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.
the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.
finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
piss on them.
now I work for the editors the readers the
but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.