Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

These Things


these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with up,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
being small,
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea
and lose the Center:
all wax without the wick,
and we see names that once meant
wisdom,
like signs into ghost towns,
and only the graves are real.


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Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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Comments about this poem (These Things by Charles Bukowski )

  • Rookie Lilah Weiss (3/28/2006 7:51:00 PM)

    ... 'enter at least 20 characters in your comment field' -_- yeah well, damn it, I have nothing to say. Amazing poet, this man. (Report) Reply

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