Chamblee54

The storm was moving in, so there would be no bicycle riding today. There was a Charles Bukowski file to listen to. A collection called “70 minutes in hell” played, and a few pictures from The Library of Congress were converted. This is not going to be an afternoon to make sense. Making sense is overrated.
The pictures were Union soldiers from the War Between the States. The idea was to kill Confederates, or die trying. That is another thing which makes no sense at all. We don’t know what it was about 150 years ago. It might have made sense then.
When the decision to write this feature was made, the first thought was to find a link to Mr. Bukowski. (Spell check suggestion: Buckskin) The thing would be easy enough to find, but a certain attitude crept into the picture. If a person wants to find the file, then Mr. Google can work for them just as easily as it can work for this slack blogger.
Poetry comes into the room like water, pouring though the mouth of a river flows into the Gulf of Mexico. When a cup of water moves from fresh water into salt, no one cares where it comes from. All that a body of water knows is that it is one cup larger.
These files are fun to listen to, without the cigarettes and beer spills. When you are tired of listening, you click on the spot and the noise goes away. Mr. Bukowski was talented, and prolific. If you keep the quantity up, the quality takes care of itself. The problem is, for every Charles Bukowski, there are a million useless urinal feeders.
Mr. Bukowski was at the racetrack, and took an emergency bowel movement. Before it was too late, he saw his wallet in the bowl, floating on top of the waste product. The billfold was extracted from the zip file. Mr. Bukowski took a ten dollar bill out, and bet it on the nine horse.