somehow, i can still find comfort between bukowski's lines. it wasn't his greatest poetry but some of it hit just right.

i think the comfort lays in reading about adverse conditions, foreign underground life, disinterest in life. it is highly unlikely that i'll ever drink six-packs until the morning and get up for a horse race at 11am. but i can almost understand the escape. when the interviewers and young writers come to him, i can almost understand why he can't give them what they want.

bukowski's poems are just stories of loneliness and isolation. they can be problematic and it's not the hardest to dislike him. at the same time, when he drives around and contemplates on people and death, i can understand the desire for chaos. bukowski deserved to see tournefortia bloom but in his heart i think it was burning.