We are alone, as far as we know, and in all the starry galaxies, no natural element, no physical force, can mimic the exercise of a single human figuring out her world and her self within it.
maybe i was meant to be john martin, the publisher who “discovered” him.
despite the fact that he was getting printed in various magazines and smut papers, charles bukowski, as legend would have it, was plucked from obscurity by a book publisher in santa barbara
who told him that he would pay him whatever he was currently being paid at the post office
and then give him royalties on his books
if only he would quit sorting mail.
the deal was agreed to and the rest was literature history.
if i was a publisher i would pay good money to get Zulieka outta the mail room
because look what she wrote yesterday