I am posting something different, a poet I struggle with. Charles Bukowski, for me, is a seminal post-modern American poet. An alcoholic who celebrated his alcoholism, an outcast, a man who rejected intellectualism and academia; his perseverance and dedication to his poetry produced a body of work that could not be ignored. A relevant persona representing the post-WW II American artistic, Pop Culture, rock-n-roll mind—indulgent and crass; decadently reveling in failure and the mundane, able to reject reputation and conformity. He possessed the courage to stand alone, rejecting the shoulders of giants, prolific with his pen. However, the man ventured into the grotesque, the sensual, the crude, while unable to master discipline, peace, obedience, or a quiet voice. Stillness was unknown. Refinement blocked. Appetites mastered him. Insatiable and pleasure seeking.  Clairvoyant to a degree, his poetry is the foolish voice of the court jester. The fool is a vital psychological element, a call to go beyond normality, the willingness to turn everything upon its head, the bravery to be disdained, the ability to endure suffering in order to gain something greater.  I recall a medieval axiom regarding a court jester: it’s an easy job to attain, yet a hard one in which to keep one’s head.  The idea being that a court jester could quickly entertain the king with his penetrating humor, however it would not be long before the king wearied of the fool’s humor, removed his head.  Bukowski possessed a dangerous mind. Dangerous minds are dangerous. Pandora’s box once opened cannot be closed. Uzzah was struck dead for thoughtlessly touching the Ark of the Covenant. Certain things should not be touched. Life is serious even if the court jester is a funny wise fool. Bukowski wrote a short story that paralyzed me with its corruptness. The overwhelming reality that he went too far, drowned himself in the evil influence of alcohol—demonic, forced me to close him off. He could be observed as an example, his words at times striking the profound, yet the reality of defeat must also register. I came across this poem online, and felt called to share it.

The Genius of the Crowd

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art