he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer night, running the blade of the knife under his fingernails, smiling, thinking of all the letters he had received telling him that the way he lived and wrote about that-- it had kept them going when all seemed truly hopeless. putting the blade on the table, he flicked it with a finger and it whirled in a flashing circle under the light. who the hell is going to save me? he thought. as the knife stopped spinning the answer came: you're going to have to save yourself. still smiling, a: he lit a cigarette b: he poured another drink c: gave the blade another spin.
--from The Last Night of the Earth Poems
Charles Bukowski
