Hate the man, love the poems

There’s this one Bukowski poem that I cannot for the life of me find and it is driving me mad. Once upon a time I owned a collection of his poems, and it was one of those books that I actually took the time to pack up and move with me. I tend to leave stacks of books at all my residences. And hotel rooms. There are roughly five books I’ve ever bothered to move around with me. This Bukowski book made it from NYC to Abu Dhabi, through me getting fired, through me working a shitty job for a year and a half, through me getting rehired. And then I gave the collection to someone. Some idiot I loved. (Not my exhusband, as it were. He can’t read for shit.) And now I have to fucking read all the Bukowski poems I can find online, searching, searching, searching for this one fucking poem.

I’ll probably never find it. But it’s something about how you can be sobbing in a corner, and then eventually you realize that the edges aren’t painted very well.

Ugh, reading all these Bukowski poems reminds me how much I love/hate him.

Last night all my friends went home at like 10pm because they’ve accepted that they’re adults or whatever, so I went to a bar by myself and sat cross-legged on a stool until the people approached me. One of them commented on the pose, and said “You look like a Buddha waiting for people to flock to you.” And it was so on point. And then we talked about American politics for like an hour. And my exhusband doesn’t get it. That’s what I need in life. I need to perch on a bar stool and learn that sanctions being lifted can be bad for an economy and that people from Africa can name Speakers of the House better than I can. I need that type of interaction in my life sometimes, and it’s not sexual or romantic at all. Maybe for the men it is. But I don’t give a shit what it is for them.

Because I’m Bukowski.

Also last night I watched an old video of a dance I spent months choreographing for my students in N. Cyprus two years ago. And my exhusband didn’t even come to the fucking show. Because he was too depressed and mad at me and childish and whatever. I nearly cried at the sight of my little babies following the steps and so obviously counting in their heads and how totally cute it was and how much work we all did to make that happen and he never even saw it. Because he’s a selfish asshole.

Because he’s Bukowski times twenty.

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2 Responses to Hate the man, love the poems

  1. Linni says:

    Hi Marina, I found your blog months ago and book marked it to read later but then forgot. A few days ago, I was cleaning my saved book marks until I stumbled upon your blog once again. And my was I in for a real treat! For three days I read everything from your early days abroad with the stalker boyfriend to the move to Cyprus. I wish there were more personal blogs like yours nowadays too (without all those monetization and podcast plugs and bs). I kept a diaryb on Wattpad for a bit but there doesn’t seem to be a big community on there and I haven’t found many people musing about their daily lives. But I hope things are going okay for you right now and I look forward to reading more updates from you, hopefully soon.

  2. mmarinaa says:

    Ah! I love this comment! Isn’t it the best when you stumble upon gems in the Interwebs? I’m so glad that my life can entertain you, hehe. It is highly entertaining to me too. My next entry is for you!

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