Today was Charles Bukowski’s birthday. All kinds of things have been said about him but for my money he was a poet first and foremost, and more especially, he was a poet of what could very well be described as obsessive projections of nostalgia.
Forget the alcohol and the miserable, even execrable efforts to find love, Bukowski’s world was always about the stars in space and the unshakable beauty of Beethoven on a cheap radio, the symphony heard while alone late at night.
Planet of the Blind 
A perfect eulogy —
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