Whenever I’m feeling good, spirits soaring, there is no one like Bukowski to bring me down, pry open my unknowing brain, drain the joy, leave me wondering why I’m so upbeat today. Read it twice, three times, I say. There’s nothing like a swig of downer to start my day. I sit, wondering, what draws me to the misery? A balancing? Too much yin or not enough yang? It stirs my waters, I guess, it gives me pause, then, somehow like code liver oil performs a magic I don’t understand.
Had an appointment. Took a book for the wait. Some nonfiction by Palahniuk.
Two seats left & right were phone-scrollers.
But left, & sounding right, or right cross, or Helen Reddy femme fatale ready to roll, the woman was loudly watching what I decided might be LA illimmigrant rioting.
She added her own contempt counterpoint noises atop as she went, telegraphing pulchritude, albeit middle-aged, postal-ness.
Or preparedness: can bring home the bacon & fry it up in a pan.
Then she got a call. In an also loud voice she gave the schedule to another she. Daughter, maybe. “Training on Saturday morning.” And “he has a lot of ammo we can buy.”
Appointment concluded, next errand stop was the deli counter. And the latest conversation installment with the musician who shreds, & slices smoked turkey, & ham, on the side. He was going on break so we took the talk to the car, parked around back of the place, a/c running.
Palahniuk on the dashboard. “May I?” Sure.” He looks the flyleaf over. “I think this is shit,” he said. Or something like that.
“Bukowski,” he says.
“Bukowski,” says a guy, I assume, in Bonner’s comments section. Where much shredding also goes on. Or the appearance of shredding.
Here’s where the Buk(owski) stops, or the Stoppard Tom-toms, or the bell tolls: nothing can be got from a thing beyond what’s brought to that thing.
And what poets & prognosticants &&& bring to everything was brought to them all by the roll cessation of a coupled pair of d120 dice. Disdyakis triacontehedron, to say it long.
Buddhist or not, it’s a hall of mirrors. And that’s what spectacle lenses & microtelescopes focus upon, whether that’s understood, or not.
Mostly, it’s not understood.
Often, too, it’s stood up denied.
Instead is preferred free will & blank slates & telekinetic brushed stainless steel DeLorean time-machine control of those dice.
Despite that contraption too had Daedalus gull wings & Icarus pilots … & that 220 pounds of cocaine was in the trunk.
Who knows where the love of god goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours, or if DeLorean would have shared Bukowski’s green beer aside, or if Bukowski would have preferred that & graciously & appreciatively accepted snort tokens of hospitality.
Tough talker and hard living self-admitted drunk who didn’t have the courage, stamina or blessings to get sober. A drunk that proudly defends his drunkenness to avoid the struggle for sobriety is as common as beer. Heard it a thousand times before from those who died while ranting of other people’s sickness. Such a shame.
He lived on his own terms and became a literary legend widely quoted across the globe. He lived up into his 70s and created till the day he died. Your puritanical rage means nothing.
"The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable: they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed."
He struggled like most real poets do. He wrote amazing, gritty poetry from the depths of his soul. It must be nice to be on such a high horse to judge the rest of us from.
Everyone has a guilty pleasure. Mine is reading while on the crapper--"Notes Of A Dirty Old Man" and a few others by the man. 'Henry Chinaski' is best savored while enjoying a red wine hangover in order to appreciate his state of mind whilst dreaming of his next conquest--it being some barroom floozie or some colorful fisticuffs. Or an episode at the typer with the last of the pint and Classical on the radio.
Bukowski is so ... fuck yeah!!! pardon my French, but man, oh man ... he says it so f**kin' well. It pure beauty! I think it is hopeful to know that his writings have been shared with the world. Hope you are doing well Mr Charles B, wherever your spirit may roam ... =) May this clarity and raggedy eloquence of yours sprout their seeds in all of us, even if just a little bit, so that we may also learn to laugh at ourselves in an honest and sincere fashion, seeing things as they really are.
It’s what I needed on this 94 degree day here on the Iberian frontier. Hank. I had a vision of a Luger spinning on an old table and hoping it wouldn’t land on me.
The thing I really get from him is that he is truly original. He's not concerned at all about sounding like anyone else. We are getting the real him when we read his stuff. I bet that is rare and more so every day.
I dunno, maybe the white trash gutter dwelling whore hopping debit reneging self worshiping Trump should issue an executive order making Bukowski America’s poet laureate?
Whenever I’m feeling good, spirits soaring, there is no one like Bukowski to bring me down, pry open my unknowing brain, drain the joy, leave me wondering why I’m so upbeat today. Read it twice, three times, I say. There’s nothing like a swig of downer to start my day. I sit, wondering, what draws me to the misery? A balancing? Too much yin or not enough yang? It stirs my waters, I guess, it gives me pause, then, somehow like code liver oil performs a magic I don’t understand.
Had an appointment. Took a book for the wait. Some nonfiction by Palahniuk.
Two seats left & right were phone-scrollers.
But left, & sounding right, or right cross, or Helen Reddy femme fatale ready to roll, the woman was loudly watching what I decided might be LA illimmigrant rioting.
She added her own contempt counterpoint noises atop as she went, telegraphing pulchritude, albeit middle-aged, postal-ness.
Or preparedness: can bring home the bacon & fry it up in a pan.
Then she got a call. In an also loud voice she gave the schedule to another she. Daughter, maybe. “Training on Saturday morning.” And “he has a lot of ammo we can buy.”
Appointment concluded, next errand stop was the deli counter. And the latest conversation installment with the musician who shreds, & slices smoked turkey, & ham, on the side. He was going on break so we took the talk to the car, parked around back of the place, a/c running.
Palahniuk on the dashboard. “May I?” Sure.” He looks the flyleaf over. “I think this is shit,” he said. Or something like that.
“Bukowski,” he says.
“Bukowski,” says a guy, I assume, in Bonner’s comments section. Where much shredding also goes on. Or the appearance of shredding.
Here’s where the Buk(owski) stops, or the Stoppard Tom-toms, or the bell tolls: nothing can be got from a thing beyond what’s brought to that thing.
And what poets & prognosticants &&& bring to everything was brought to them all by the roll cessation of a coupled pair of d120 dice. Disdyakis triacontehedron, to say it long.
Buddhist or not, it’s a hall of mirrors. And that’s what spectacle lenses & microtelescopes focus upon, whether that’s understood, or not.
Mostly, it’s not understood.
Often, too, it’s stood up denied.
Instead is preferred free will & blank slates & telekinetic brushed stainless steel DeLorean time-machine control of those dice.
Despite that contraption too had Daedalus gull wings & Icarus pilots … & that 220 pounds of cocaine was in the trunk.
Who knows where the love of god goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours, or if DeLorean would have shared Bukowski’s green beer aside, or if Bukowski would have preferred that & graciously & appreciatively accepted snort tokens of hospitality.
Not me. I don’t know. Neither does anyone else.
True, then they stuffed the “dirty linen” back in the dusty armoire.
Blood. Guts. Poetry. LIFE.
C.B. tells it like it (still) is.
What a wonderful way
To start the day. My heart
Leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky
Or a poem by Charlie Bukowski.
So was it when I was a boy
Or now when I soon must die.
O how the awful truth makes us
Smile, now and for awhile,
Or cry, O for a soul that can fly!
KR, 6.13.2025
(My lucky day!)
Tough talker and hard living self-admitted drunk who didn’t have the courage, stamina or blessings to get sober. A drunk that proudly defends his drunkenness to avoid the struggle for sobriety is as common as beer. Heard it a thousand times before from those who died while ranting of other people’s sickness. Such a shame.
He lived on his own terms and became a literary legend widely quoted across the globe. He lived up into his 70s and created till the day he died. Your puritanical rage means nothing.
The women (mostly) loved him. Linda was a saint for putting up with him and, for that, he was fortunate. He got three lives' worth of living.
Perhaps a judgemental observation, but "puritanical rage" seems rather hyperbolic.
"The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable: they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed."
- Ernest Hemingway
He struggled like most real poets do. He wrote amazing, gritty poetry from the depths of his soul. It must be nice to be on such a high horse to judge the rest of us from.
Everyone has a guilty pleasure. Mine is reading while on the crapper--"Notes Of A Dirty Old Man" and a few others by the man. 'Henry Chinaski' is best savored while enjoying a red wine hangover in order to appreciate his state of mind whilst dreaming of his next conquest--it being some barroom floozie or some colorful fisticuffs. Or an episode at the typer with the last of the pint and Classical on the radio.
Well played,sir
Such raw and miserable beauty. Love it!
Bukowski is so ... fuck yeah!!! pardon my French, but man, oh man ... he says it so f**kin' well. It pure beauty! I think it is hopeful to know that his writings have been shared with the world. Hope you are doing well Mr Charles B, wherever your spirit may roam ... =) May this clarity and raggedy eloquence of yours sprout their seeds in all of us, even if just a little bit, so that we may also learn to laugh at ourselves in an honest and sincere fashion, seeing things as they really are.
It’s what I needed on this 94 degree day here on the Iberian frontier. Hank. I had a vision of a Luger spinning on an old table and hoping it wouldn’t land on me.
Are those the actual lines and spacing of the poem?
Yes.
The thing I really get from him is that he is truly original. He's not concerned at all about sounding like anyone else. We are getting the real him when we read his stuff. I bet that is rare and more so every day.
That was quietly amazing. Thank you for stilling my mind away from fame and fortune for a moment ✨️
Really tells us what's wrong with the world. It's a fake governed by non-poets who know how to go about it. Why the hell do they want to be poets?
He didnt ask her l to shave.
Bukowski is a poet for all occasions. He has a lovely way of dropping truth bombs that cannot be argued with, merely accepted.
I dunno, maybe the white trash gutter dwelling whore hopping debit reneging self worshiping Trump should issue an executive order making Bukowski America’s poet laureate?
I’m SO glad I took the time.