Driving back in the car today from Exeter, having bought another damn Bukowski book -- I bloody love that (dead) guy -- I know, or rather something external to me knows, that I've got no choice if I want to reflect on the world as I see and live it.
For all my prolix writing on living divided no more, it's not really where I'm at. I don't mean that what I've written isn't true -- you don't know me very well if you think that -- but it's not immediate or direct enough. I want to cut away the chaff, and get right down to it. Only poetry can do that; and Buk's poetry is pretty remarkable in that department.
Right now, unless I'm so inclined I won't share online. I'm going to write everything by hand, type it up in Word and print it off. Whether it will ever see the light of day beyond that, who the bloody hell knows.