bukowski and sleepless nights

A smile to Remember by Charles Bukowski

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "be happy Henry!"
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?"

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

- no matter how down I might feel, when reading Bukowski I always end up feeling a little better than what i did before, because - really - my life, in comparison, is not all that bad. But although his semi-biographic tales of the life of a working class man, and its gritty realism, is nothing like my little secluded reality - there is something strangely compelling, and universal, about his writings of loneliness and alienation. and for that, he, or his writings that is, has become a vital part of how i deal with life - ... on a sleepless night like this.