Charles Bukowski

Well not literally, but come on creatives, how much longer are you going to force yourself to eek by in a place that couldn’t be more inhospitable to artists than New York? Why move to Detroit where you couldn’t be more removed from other important arts communities? Need space? We’ve got tons, and it’s cheap, Globe Dye Works, Crane Arts, MaKen Studio, and this list barely scratches the surface, literally millions of square feet of space is available. Affordable housing? Us again, you can actually afford to live here as a professional artist. World class cultural institutions? Yep yep, PMA, The Barnes Foundation, The Curtis Institute, Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, to name a few. Charles Bukowski was here, and while he was never known for his broker babble, it still seems pretty inspiring.

there’s nothing like being young
and starving,
living in a roominghouse and
pretending to be a
writer
while other men are occupied
with their professions and
their possessions.
there’s nothing like being
young and
starving,
listening to Brahms,
your belly sucked-in,
nary an ounce of
fat,
stretched out on the bed
in the dark,
smoking a rolled
cigarette
and working on the
last bottle of
wine,
the sheets of your
writing strewn across the
floor.
you have walked on and across
them,
your masterpieces, and
either
they’ll be read in
hell,
or perhaps
gnawed at by the
curious
mice.
Brahms is the only
friend you have,
the only friend you
want,
him and the wine
bottle,
as you realize that
you will never
be a citizen of the
world,
and if you
live to be very
old
you still will never
be a citizen of the
world.
the wine and
Brahms mix well as
you watch the
lights
move across the
ceiling,
courtesy of
passing
automobiles.
soon you’ll sleep
and
tomorrow there
certainly
will be
more
masterpieces.