Charles Bukowski is one of literature’s most notorious assholes. He lived a demented, alcoholic, tragic life and his poetry reflects semi-autobiographically, as all writers attempt to live and survive, this lifestyle. He is on my short list of heroes. I’m not sure that would mean much to him, maybe it would, but it does to me. He taught me to be blunt. He taught me to not rest in flowery disillusion but to take a jab, to start by twisting your hips and bending your knee, trust your guts, react, and finish. It doesn’t matter if you win. Someone has to lose. All that matters is that it looked damn fine in the photographs. Worth a story to tell. That is poetry in motion. He taught me to not fear myself. He also taught me restraint. Not everything I have to say is worth mentioning but it may be worth some further deliberation. I hope you see that as a compliment, Chuck.

Here’s to you.

———————

Hey, Hank…

“What are you afraid of?”
he asked.
and I shuddered, because that’s not
something you ask
just anyone
and I’m not sure if I really thought
about it, or if what I had to say was true,
or if I should have said anything
at all, but
the beer was there.

“I suppose,”
I replied,

“being alone.”

“Well,” a smirk appeared, and I could tell
he was starting to fade,
“to two of the loneliest fellows on earth.” He
chunked the breast of our rabid mugs
together
and drank himself into
the lady’s back beside him
who pushed him
aside
as he pointed at the ceiling;
the artificial bulb,
the wings of the drowsy,
dust-alctite fan
and he laid beside my feet
hand over chest now
his mug, empty
but upright
still
on the counter
beside
me.

He said, “it’s good
to be alone.”