the wasted profession

all the words, you know, it's hard to tell if you're truly on course or
on some vanity trip: how much can be said, how much has
already been said, and why?
other writers' words do me little good, then, why should mine be
special?
all my words...do they creat
laughter through the flame?

the same poets reading over and
over again in the same venues; I am embarrassed for them and for
myself:
do we really think that we are fashioning speech more un-
usual than a stock market or weather
report?

all the words--we type away--on and on--most of us living lives
ordinary and without courage--are we sick to think that our
speech is
exceptional?

I don't like us and I never did--is there anything worse
than a creature who lives only to write
poetry?

charles bukowski (the continual condition)