for amount a month i've been looking for a particular book of poetry
by charles bukowski called sifting through madness of the word, the line, the way.

i was at people book store in austin today.
and was surprised to finally run into it.

intimidated by the titles of poems in the table of contents,
i blindly opened to a page 313
and was struck by the appropriate nature of the first poem i read:


where was I?

I didn't know where I came
from or where I was
going.
I was lost.
I used to sit
in strange doorways
for hours,
not thinking
not moving
until i was asked
to move.

I don't mean that I was an
idiot or a
fool.
what I mean is that
I was
uninterested.

I didn't care if you intended
to kill me.
I wouldn't stop you.

I was living an existence that
meant nothing to
me.

I found places to stay.
small rented rooms. bars. jails.
sleep and indifference seemed
the only
possibilities.
all else
seemed nonsense.

once I sat all night long and looked
out at the Mississippi River.
I don't know why.
the river ran by and
all I remember is that it
stank.

I always seemed to be
on a cross-country
bus
traveling
somewhere.
looking out a dirty
window at
nothing at
all.

I always knew exactly how much
money I was
carrying.
for example:
a five and two ones
in my wallet
and a nickel, a dime, and
two pennies in my right
front pocket.

I had no desire to speak
to anybody nor to be
spoken to.
I was looked upon as a
misfit and a
freak.
I ate very little food but
I was amazingly
strong.
once, working in a facotry
the young boys, the bruisers,
were trying to lift a heavy
piece of machinery from the
floor.
they all failed.

"hey, Hank, try it!" they
laughed.

I walked over, lifted it,
put it down,
went back to
work.

I gained their respect
for some reason
but I didn't want
it.

at times I would pull down
the shades in my room
and stay in bed for a
week or more.

I was on a strange journey
but it was
meaningless.
I had no ideas.
I had no plan.
I slept.
I just slept
and I waited.

I wasn't lonely.
I experienced no self-puty.
I was just caught up in a
life in which
I could find no
meaning.

then I was
a young man a
thousand years old.

and now I am an old man
waiting to be born.