It’s called “One Hundred Dollars” by Charles Bukowski, but I believe there’s only this image of it.
I’m beginning to think it’s simply a metaphor for whatever we choose it to be.
THERE IS NO IMAGE HERE.
famouspoetsandpoems.com/poet … ski/apoems
And it is not listed among his poems. And they are alphabetized. 
Charles Bukowski, you say? 
Ah very good. great hyperlink Now can you tell me what year 100 dollars was written so I can read it…before the year is up.
It was written in 1974.
Ah that poem is about more than death. It’s about anticipation, expectation, false hope. Reminds me of what John Lennon says "Life is what happens to us when the plans we make don’t work out. (paraphrased).
Of course, at the race track, one anticipates and hopes, sure of a winner, against all odds, we believe, but life has other plans. Planning for the future is important, but living in the moment, each moment, and not anticipating how things will work out, but just being grateful for it.
Fear brings us out of the moment and we become unaware of what we truly have Now.
And then there is Death - we never really know. It is the best teacher of Life, living - Life’s best companion - death.
Very well analyzed and interpreted. I see it in similar ways. It’s a very touching poem, don’t you think? It makes you stop and think about the worth of this all. Is it really only worth 100 dollars? Just a thought, but the title makes me think this way. In any way, it’s a great poem.
Dominion lasts until obtained—
Possession just as long—
But these—endowing as they flit
Eternally belong.
How everlasting are the Lips
Known only to the Dew—
These are the Brides of permanence
Supplanting me and you.
So proud was she to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed—
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be
Immediately—that Anguish stooped
Almost to Jealousy—
Whether they have forgotten
Or are forgetting now
Or never remembered—
Safer not to know—
Miseries of conjecture
Are a softer woe
Than a Fact of Iron
Hardened with I know—
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
William Blake
Society for me my misery
Since Gift of Thee—
The Heart has many Doors—
I can but knock—
For any sweet “Come in”
Impelled to hark—
Not saddened by repulse,
Repast to me
That somewhere, there exists,
Supremacy—
What’s this?
Still own thee—still thou art
What surgeons call alive—
Though slipping—slipping I perceive
To thy reportless Grave—
Which question shall I clutch—
What answer wrest from thee
Before thou dost exude away
In the recallless sea?
Emily Dickinson
The little worm
lowers itself from the roof
By a self shat thread.
Jack Kerouac
Not sickness stains the Brave—
Nor any Dart—
Nor Doubt of scene to come,
But an adjourning Heart—
Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.
I’ve loved with the soul, but never with the might.