Carson McCullers by Charles Bukowski

Browsing through my bookshelf earlier. Saw a McCullers title I’ve yet to read but didn’t pick it up. Hesitated on getting Bukowski which was sitting under a big pile. And now, this poem. Are you trying to tell me something, dear universe?

Carson McCullers
Charles Bukowski

she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean

all her books of
terrified loneliness

all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love

were all that was left
of her

as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body

notified the captain

and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship

as everything
continued just
she had written it



  1. I had made my way through your entire journal/blog in the past few months. It makes me sad to think I won’t have several poems to read at my fingertips so easily anymore, but will actually have to go out there and search for them. It also makes me sad that now I’m going to read your posts in the order they will be written, because I prefered the little snippets frozen in time and I especially loved putting them together in this fractured picture that can never be complete anyway. But oh well, I’m still going to read them.

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