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## Bukowski spins
"Food to share"
A warm and inviting sentiment
painted white across a green wooden
box, weathered by time and and chipped by
soil, reaches out from a feed numbed
by the callow perhaps offensive notion
that a poet's words are less than art;
less than the opening to this or that world;
less than the sigils and sounds and syllables
of pain bleeding through alcoholic reality.
"Bukowski!" they yell.
Bukowski had a secret and we can use
it to write better copy to sell more
useless shit to people who might have
been better off if we dropped the content
and dropped the marketing and just spoke
through virgin words without concern for the dollar.
"Bukowski!" again.
You see, it's all about the line.
So what if his line was something of a switchblade;
sharp and hidden and lethal to the fat belly of
low-level, fast-food, high fructose content hacks.
There is something in his approach that we can use to
sell this thing that nobody anywhere will ever really need.
"Food to share"
Grown and given for no other reason
than the rightness of feeding each other.
At human scale, face to face, food is poetry.
But here in RSS the poetics of organic
produce grind against the syndicated feed
of bitter and lonely sales messages.
And though we feel informed we still
starve for the simple truth that only
the living, breathing, teaming soil can provide.
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