“That’s just
basic freudian theory”
he says to her and she nods sagely. “And do you know the story of Oedipus?”
She grips his arm awkwardly possessive of her rare prize
and beams “I do”.
There he struts, confident in his nascent intellectualism
as he
explains it all regardless.

Behind me someone else
“Oh look, Sar-tee declined a Nobel peace prize”

I’m standing reading
some older Bukowski
wondering when he really got good
Because this just isn’t cutting it.