a friend of mine was having an exasperating day just not good in his thick Russian accent he says to me: "you know what I hate selya (celia)?" "no" i say "what do you hate?" he says in his best Moscou "i hate stupid people, and people who don't listen" "me too!" i chimed in! he's been a good friend and he's watched out for me we are world's apart in our ideologies, politics, the way we think, we disagree on most things, rather pleasantly and I appreciate that. I do enjoy his company. And damned if he didn't nail a sentiment that is echoed in so many of my favorite artists and my heart as well. "Think it Over" aka "The Grand Wazoo" or "Dumb All Over, " "Idiot, Bastard Son", "Andy" or "Cosmic Debris" ("look here brother, who you jiving with that Cosmi Debris") by Frank Zappa provide a much needed relief, and here I am giggling at Tony now. He'd absolutely hate Zappa and probably Bukowski if he read more than just these poems (though perhaps not the poems I offer here). Still, I can hear him with his best "Russe" Hot Frusration, shaking his head mumbling "stooped peepul!" I immediately thought of this poem. Told him I'd write/type/print it out for him (lucky you! now you get to read it too!), it ain't zappa's but it could be... the same exhausted, frustrated sentiment both this bukowski and zappa i think are often misunderstood oh there ain't no doubt, both have serious A$$hole capabilities they also attract butterflies (read: Butterflies, from "What Matters Most is How You Walk Through the Fire" pg. 57) and have a 'bluebird in their heart' (The Bluebird: pg. 120 "The Last Night of Earth Poems" I also include "The Road to Hell" (pg. 70 "The Flash of Lightening Behind the Mountain" as they seem rather in the same vein...I hope you enjoy them Perhaps they seem sarcastic but to me...simply, nakedly honest... for Tony. splashing: dumb, Jesus Christ, some people are so dumb you can hear them splashing around in their dumbness as their eyes look out of their heads. they have most of their parts: hands, feet, ears, legs, elbows, intestines, fingernails, noses and so forth but there's nothing there yet they are able to speak, form sentences- but what comes out of their mouths are the stalest concepts, the most warped beliefs, they are the repository of all the obvious stupidities they have stuffed themselves with and it hurts me to look at them to listen to them, I want to run and hide I want to escape their engulfing nullity there is no horror movie worse, no murder as unsolved but the world goes on and they go on dumbly slamming my guts to pieces. the road to hell if only there were more magic people to help us get through this strange life. surprisingly there are a few. the problem being that often their magic doesn't hold up for long mainly because they begin to think it's because they are special when really it's almost an off-hand thing like some damned crazy unearned gift. and when the magic people begin to misuse thier prowess begin to use it in the wrong ways then it vanishes and that's a LAW and it's one of the most unalterable laws of the gods and the universe and there is nothign sadder or more frightning than the once-gifted ones still trying to work their magic for the crowd which never offers, but only accepts, mercy. I think of all the poets I have ever read it is Bukowski that gives me the most hope about my own writing. He writes about everything, all the time. So do I. When I was younger I was much less afraid to share, but after having received so much criticism, small comments, innuendo, I found myself retreating. For so long I have edited myself, been afraid to show my work (yeah, I know you don't believe me...but trust me for everything I've ever sent...I've re-worked those pieces, cutting, slicing and editing! I am not like Neil Young...very rarely but upon occasion the first draft is the last, more often than not I'll write four pages and throw it away, ah the delete key!...you may not believe it, but Bukowski has given me my hope back. Heck, he writes poems about little old ladies, shopping for groceries! Makes me realize whether or not it may seem important to others, whether it is the smallest of mundane details like "stupid people" in 'Splashing," writing is what I do...regardless of whether I try to publish or not. I'll end this piece with yet another Charles Bukowski musing: "my wrists are rivers, my fingers words" best, c
Who is the Grand Wazoo? "Anybody in any one of those lodge organizations with a stupid hat on," said Frank, adding "actually, the guy with the biggest, dumbest hat is the Grand Wazoo." THINK IT OVER- The early name for "The Grand Wazoo" as excerpted from Roman's www. at http://globalia.net/donlope/fz/index.html
splashing: "Last Night of the Earth Poems" pg. 238
the road to hell: "the Flash of Light Behind the Mountain" pg. 70 | 
