In the 1950's, art was censored just like it is today. Today, however, Bukowski would have no problem getting published. He'd be a hero. He'd be a social media warrior. The world as it is today punishes artists like myself. Ones who hone craft, develop theme, achieve excellence and wisdom, punctuate form. Ones who study the craft, find deep intrinsic meaning. Because the world doesn't want meaning. It wants to look at its own affluence, and say, "I despise this."

Bukowski needed to be a writer. Like I, he could do no other thing but write. Writing was a salvation... a way to mend brokenness. Yet, for me it was the sublime childhood I had, the loving mother and father, contrasted with hedonistic peers, scathing and unforgiving fictive family, teachers who didn't give a damn about me. I had not been abused by my mother or father. I had been abused by peers, by teachers who gave me handicaps and made me a target for everyone else.

I have much in common with Bukowski. A childhood riddled with abuse. Yet, I developed trust. Where he didn't. I don't want to be with broken people---I've known enough of them. I want to be with wise people, who have the straight neck tie, who have the nine to five job. I just want my writing to be my nine to five. I want it to be what gives me sustenance, as that is my American Dream. He had his, being the most flagrant supporter of everything wrong. Yet, today we reward that skepticism. And I am skeptical of him. I've met enough men who claimed there were no morals. And those same men scathed me, stabbed me in the heart, and fought scorched earth warfare against my soul. I do not want those people in my life.

I like people who don't have fire in them. People who don't want to take from me. I've had few friends---a few very good friends. And in my poverty, most all have abandoned me, having taught me all I need to know of the human condition. That it is success which conforms a man to this world. I could write Shakespearean quality works, if not for my outlawed craft, that being the observation of a simple fact. There is right and wrong. And I've seen it my whole life. My favorite shows were the ones which taught and showed healthy people. All of my characters are healthy people, sometimes driven insane by an unhealthy world.

For, in the end, I am healthy. I am a healthy man driven insane by the stress of a world which rejected the things I took for granted. Love, Mercy, Forgiveness, Justice, Peace, Unconditional Friendship. Those I took for granted. And I had found that all else, men do not hold the same values I hold. They, rather, revel in the dysfunction and the laziness of scathing well lived lives. I speak not of Warehouse workers, who truly don't earn enough to live. No, I speak of the postmaster, who having everything in life, still feels unsatisfied. I, with nothing but a few people who love me, the people who truly matter, am already satisfied. I am satisfied with little coupled with love. And, I hope to one day be blessed with a small fortune from my golden wisdom. For, I wish to enrich people to see the thing I have. Be satisfied with the thing you choose. Charles, if wise, is wise for having chosen.

Striking verse. Like I myself had written it. I wonder why I'm not published as yet, when I can strike just as hard. Perhaps it's just I answer the question.

God would not call on you, Adonis. Because you wouldn't heed His word. God is not a fool. I don't believe one could conceive of the thoughts of Noah. They were probably very few. Probably like a bunny rabbit, shivering in the bush during a lightning storm. There was probably love.

If the whole world were destroyed today, it were only because they did look for other gods. And found them, they did with science. Which, shamefacedly destroys liberty as we speak. No, the god you refer to, God,---that's His name---His laws are perfect. Should He have destroyed the world during Noah, I can completely understand. Yet, St. Peter said the world this next time would be destroyed by fire. It never said whose.

You strike with verse. Unashamedly. I strike back. Nobody believes in God anymore, and the world is in utter chaos. There is no peace. There is no joy. There is utter pandemonium because men have forsaken His law. Whose, law, is it that you forsake? Do not covet? Do not murder? Honor the Sabbath? If men honored the Sabbath, Adonis, there wouldn't be an ounce of the political and economic corruption there is today. Because men need rest. Do men rest, Adonis? Didn't Christ say, "The Sabbath was made for man?" Yes, because the Laws of God were not some arbitrary thing He told us to laugh at our suffering. It was because by not following it, there would only be suffering.

Moreover, do you have a problem with God being God? Who else would die for you? Give laws so obvious? Did men, or yourself, ever find a law? Are you Mozi or Confucius, a sage? Able to find the Logos? Are you Aristotle? Able to discover the accidental reasons God's law exist? No. You are but a man who took the name of a demigod. You made yourself a hero, foolishly.

Here is what I say to you: Are the worlds better without Christ today? Because He is gone. Do the masses throng to Him? Oh, yes they do, but powerful men like yourself censure the humble masses for wanting Christ as their LORD. They cry for justice, peace, love, joy---yet, they live in abject poverty. Who, therefore, will compensate them for this suffering? Not you, I assume. You write poetry, get rich---maybe you do charity. What then? Are you God, that you can recompense the poor for their lives of utter and abject suffering?

I ask you this question. Since you are the modern day Nietzsche. I saw you compared to T. S. Eliot. Well, even he found faith because he said, famously, "Let me never turn again." Why is that? Perhaps that line needs to be meditated on, Adonis.

Adonis.  "The New Noah."  Poetry Foundation. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/49323/the-new-noah. 2/13/22. Web.

I have written epics on American history. In perfect form. I have written epics on English Mythology, doing what Tolkien wished to do---his question was my inspiration. I have written Byronic Heroes who fought the demons of my own soul. I have written a thousand or so short poems of various degrees of quality---some might even say, true poesy. I have written cogently on both subjects of Math and Humanity. I have mastered two philosophies, Platonic Forms and Existentialism. I am mastering a third, Epicureanism. I have found kernels which prove God's existence.

I come to this poem, and humbly I say I haven't written anything so beautiful. At first, I figure a friend would encourage another friend to write poetry---Charles Lamb was a lamb of a man. But, as I read it, unable to penetrate the verse, I start to find poison, Achilles, Hight Castalie---that is to be cast on a lying path. I find a true friend. And I read Charles Lamb's poetry. I see the sort of thing I see in the modern poet. That if I were their friend, I would tell them to stop writing it.

Yet, I follow his advice, too. Not because I haven't written anything good, but because there is nowhere left to write. And mystically, he predicts me with his allusion to Auld Lang Syne. The mystery of the Prophets. 

I believe I, too, have written so much over the years. I have mastered poetry. I have mastered my thoughts. Now, rather, I wish to tell what others have spoken. What others have written. For I have a knack for telling the hidden secrets of another's verse. Even the things they do not know or see. And in that is the ministry I have. To draw forth the precious out of the worthless, as God said to Jeremiah. For what is all of this poetry even I write?

Where do I improve? Tell me. I have written in perfect verse the critical moment of American History. I have written in beautiful poesy the Mythology of England. I have touched every subject under the sun---I know no other to be explored. What is within me, is completely exhausted. Yet, I have it in me to write. What can I improve upon with my poetry? Written every Tall Tale again, written even a Pseudepigraphal Gospel. Short of writing a verse of scripture, I have no other mountain to climb. And no scripture, I am afraid, shall ever pour forth from my pen if I am to remain an honest man.

There is nowhere left in poetry. Nor is there anywhere left in fiction. I have written worlds deep, rich---Trilogies the caliber of War and Peace, Novellas of literature like Austen or Melville. I've written my first taste of poetry like Eliot---I was told. I was told, "Your production is Godly." Godly, as in praising God... Yet, it is not godlike. It is the fruit of an imagination which was given to me as a child. My whole life, up to about fifteen, was invented worlds. As a grown up, it shifts to poetry. And finally, as a Sage, it ought to end in essay.

What is the sage? Simply, the man who finds God's Word on his own. And with one more leap, I shall be a disciple.

And more importantly, why ought I write anything more? If it is not to discover what others have found?

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. The Complete Poems. Edited by William Keach. "To a Friend Who Declared His Intention of Writing No More Poetry" (pp. 125 - 126).  Penguin Classics, 2004. Text.

I shall, in one fell swoop, interpret almost every amateur poet.

They are special, and they are offensive. They have great things to say, and go on and on about themselves and how special they are. True narcissists. They talk about their heroism, their failed love---on and on about how misunderstood they are. They get hundreds of followers who want to be special, too.

They have a hubris, which like many professional athletes is reinforced by their success. Maybe they are special? For, their story of how heroic they are---void of imagination, or theme, or crux, or content---tells all the simplistic story of how greatly misunderstood, how greatly wise they are. Nobody likes them... of course. They have great mysteries to tell us of themselves. They tell us the mystery of themselves, and its end is themselves.

There are a few poets whom this is not the case. And I typically will honor them by interpreting their work. They have heroic deeds. They have things to speak. They have observations, nuanced views, making the strange mundane, or making the mundane strange. They can rightly talk about themselves, for they have learned the subtle art of self-denial. The subtle art of self scathing. No true artist can be a poet unless they have that little man in them telling them and the world their failings.

The poets of modern day sing of themes... like a kaleidoscope being twirled around and around. Telling of failed love---making us horny. Is it truly skill? Is it anything worth writing? They garner their followers---for it seems the pack follows what mostly resembles their own craft. "Should that be successful, then so shall I."  Thus, the Instagram Poetry gets popular, sold for millions of dollars.

I don't mean to sneer, but if the whole interpretation of the poem is just a matter of getting some vague notion of you, I don't think that's a poem. Unless you have made an observation about the real world, or some real conundrum or mystery. Those who are true poets will understand this. The frustration of seeing the flocks tell of how special and offensive they are. No... what I write is offensive. Because I have the audacity to speak.