Happy Idiot

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I watch the jocks come out in the
post parade. one will win the race. the others will
lose. but each jock must win sometime in some race
on some day, and he must do it often enough. or he is
done as a jockey.
it’s like the girls on the street trying to score for
their pimp
or each of us sitting over a typewriter tonight or tomorrow
or next week or next month
and doing it well enough
once in a while
or he is done as a writer,
he’s a whore who can’t score.

I think I would like a little more kindness
in the structure
but the nature of things has a way of not

when I was a boy I used to dream of becoming
the village idiot.
I used to lie in bed and imagine myself the
happy idiot
able to get food easily
and easy sympathy,
a planned confusion of not too much love
or effort.

some would claim that I have succeeded.

— Charles Bukowski, my art form

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