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The Trash Can

this is great,

I just wrote twopoems I didn't like.there is a trash can on thiscomputer.

I just moved the poemsoverand dropped them intothe trash 're gone forever, nopaper, no sound, nofury, no placentaand thenjust a clean screenawaits 's always betterto reject yourself beforethe editors do.especially on a rainynight like this withbad music on the now--I know what you'rethinking:maybe he should havetrashed thismisbegotten , ha, ha,ha.

The light, perfectly balanced verse captures very well, the fluidity, almostI could say the liberation, that the computer affords the wordsmith -nothing is permanent unless you want it to be, erasing a word, a line, anentire poem is no harder than a click of a button.

Words on paper have a definite inertia to them - the crossed out lines tracktheir way indelibly across the sheet, a visible and increasingly messyrecord of a work's revision history.

Contrast the aesthetic freedom of no paper, no sound, no fury, no placenta and then just a clean screen awaits you.

And the poem itself definitely reflects that freedom, the lines pouringforth with careless abandon until they reach a hilariously antipoeticconclusion that made me laugh out loud.

A fitting ending to the theme,

Ithink.

Ha, ha, ha.

Ha.

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Charles Bukowski

Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writ…

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