This is the first collection where Bukowski was showing his age. Showing his age and, at times, almost a maudlin side. And an increasingly self-deprecating humor and playfulness. The latter being, to me, and my passing familiarity with his work, the most striking.
unconcerned with
petty argument
we have floated free...
giant macho soaring
balloons!
WHEE!"
"gender benders" (247)
It just rings and sings and laughs unlike anything else of Bukowski's that I can remember.
The end of the collection collapses into ruminations on aging, marking -- and accepting -- as old and dying everything that once simply was, and perhaps was run hard. The poems "old poem", "older", "everything hurts", "husk", "cancer", and the collection closing "mind and heart" -- among so many others -- present an almost gentle man, so at odds with the image evoked in the mythology and so much of his poetry.
It's intriguing. A little startling too. And part of me wants my tough guy back.
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