A fairly middling outing for Bukowski. Definitely not as bad as Septuagenarian Stew and not as good as Sifting Through Madness For The Word, The Line, The Way. I’m not sure there will ever be a collection of poetry by Bukowski that’s as definitive as his great novel, Ham On Rye, but in the great scheme of things perhaps it doesn’t matter. After all, I’d imagine if you put together all of his best poems in one book (including the immortal “Fire Station”) it still wouldn’t be definitive just because Bukowski spread his inspiration over so much more than just one book of poems. He wrote thousands of poems so when a book comes out it’s just another snippet of that and what you get more often than not is poetry done the right way in a field so packed with poetry done the wrong way.