Bukowski's Painting of the Bull

Bukowski pinned us about seventeen years ago.
I was born eight years earlier and had nothing to arm myself against the bombardment of reality.
Instead I bumble down now through the internet supermarket bistro looking hungrily for some
Malediction.
Morose. Have I contempt for my fellow man.? Bukowski?
Or am I simply another idiot eating the green grass watching the time pass on my television screen?
The bull you painted in those water colors reminds me of my brother.
He’s stabbed so many times by the same matador for the sake of ritualistic insanity.
You watch the blood drain and spray. It is among us. Nature swallows it all Bukowski. It devours you, me,and our brothers.