Sunday, May 9, 2010

Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers At Last

There's a certain campy punch to much of Bukowski that I really enjoy. I don't think it's necessarily intended, but's how I find myself reading it often; and many times it's why I pick up Bukowski.

This was such a time.

And The People Look Like Flowers At Last didn't disappoint.

There was an oddly reflective, surrealistically-tinged opening that worried me at first, but the collection settles in to the consciously rough-hewn edge that I so enjoy when I'm looking for a self-referential, half-winking escape. It means I read slower -- to draw out the time I can indulge -- and I'm sad to go.

Not so sorry to be leaving him; maybe, instead, the silly possibilities Bukowski is such a master at conjuring.

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