Today is the last day of the world. My Internet just got turned back on and birds are singing outside my window. The kid’s asleep, so I’ve finally got some quiet. I’m expecting the flames to hit the Earth at any moment. I’ve taken my number. I’m waiting my turn.
Last night, we celebrated. My wife and I sat on the couch and watched a Bukowski reading from 1970. It seemed like a good way to go out. The old bastard was in good spirits. And even if the tape faded in and out and the sound wasn’t exactly perfect, it was better than Letterman or whatever the fuck the rest of America watched as it readied itself to die.
What can I say? It’s Buk. The book was fucking awesome. Big surprise.
You’ve still got time, my friends. Screw church. Screw your family. Screw your job. Spend yur last day on Earth with whores, bottles, and leaky ceilings. Let your insides mold a bit. There’s no tomorrow anyway.