Three Poems for Charles Bukowski on the Anniversary of His Death

By: Erik Rittenberry

“We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.”

— Charles Bukowski

The great Los Angeles poet Charles Bukowski died of leukemia on this day in 1994. In honor of the anniversary of his death, I’d like to share a few poems by A.D. Winans that he dedicated to his old poet friend.

Charles Bukowski and A.D. Winan's friendship was built on mutual respect, shared literary sensibilities, and a deep appreciation for raw, unfiltered poetry. Both men were part of the small press and underground literary scene, rejecting mainstream literary pretensions in favor of gritty, real-world writing that spoke to the struggles of ordinary people.

A.D. Winans, a native of San Francisco, is a poet and writer deeply rooted in the city's literary history. After returning from Panama in 1958, he became part of the North Beach Beat scene. He has authored over sixty books of poetry and prose, including North Beach Poems, North Beach Revisited, San Francisco Poems, and The Holy Grail: The Charles Bukowski Second Coming Revolution.

His work has received rare praise from literary and cultural figures such as Colin Wilson, Studs Terkel, James Purdy, Peter Coyote, Jack Hirschman, Jack Micheline, and Charles Bukowski himself.

A. D. Winans once wrote:

I met Hank [Bukowski] less than a handful of times, but he too was a friend of mine. Friends are there when you need them; at a low point in my life, when friends are never more important, Hank wrote me and said: "I know you are down and out, low on coin, spiritually molested like the rest of us; little chance but to hang on by the fingernails, work a line or two down on paper, and walk down the street and breathe the air of this shit life they've put upon us and that we've put upon ourselves."

This statement says a lot about who Hank was. He was a man who shot straight from the hip, the same way I have tried to do my entire life. I believe this is what helped make the two of us form a bond. There weren't any game between us. No need to wear masks.

At 89 years old, Winans continues to defend Bukowski's literary merit long after his death, challenging critics who dismissed him as a crude, drunken poet. He recognized Bukowski’s influence on modern poetry and remains one of his champions in the small press world.

Without further ado, let’s get to the poems.

POEM FOR THE OLD MAN

I tried to picture him
battling leukemia
but still managing just 
20 days before his death
to send a poem
to Wormwood Review
filled with life
to the end
perhaps a wry smile
on his face
for the doctor
and a hand on the ass
of the nurse
playing out the game
to the end
like only the old man
was capable of doing

---

REFLECTIONS ON BUKOWSKI

they come to pay their respects
lay flowers at the grave 
some bring whiskey
or picnic there
engrossed in imaginary conversation
they say neeli wept and clawed
at the grave
his grief so great

no skid row memories here
the grounds well kept

they come alone
or in pairs and groups
a holy pilgrimage
on an unholy mission
hoping the messiah
might rise
and take them 
in his arms

---

I Paid $3.00 To See Bukowski Read

I paid $3.00 to see bukowski read
then went around to the side exit
and got in free
sat behind stage on an old piano watching
the old man sit at the table drinking beer
and facing his enemies
his hero worshipers reading
one good poem for every three
bad ones and 
the audience not knowing
the good from the bad
and after it was over 
after his admirers had cornered him 
for his autograph and whatever else
they could get out of him which
was nothing

he smiled took my arm
and said,
A.D. 
i want to see you at the party
and then climbed in the van with 
the young kids who envied him
the young poets who said
his poetry was the shits
the young kids who hated his guts
the young kids who told him how
great he was
the young kids who wanted to
be seen with him
and one or two who wanted 
him dead
and so i refused a ride in
the van not feeling comfortable
with undertakers who drive
live corpses to sealed graves
before their time
and got in my own car instead
and drove up across van ness
across the streets of
my home town
and arrived at the party
a half hour late
and "buk" was getting blown in 
the bathroom by a pretty middle-
class hostess who probably gargled 
listerine

and it was wall to wall bodies
and the usual crowd
the young poets who were jealous
of the old man
the young poets who seek instant fame
the young poets who would never make it
and the young women who had made it already
once too often in bedrooms and hallways
in alleyway and in johns with pushed
up skirts and knees scarred from
one too many head jobs

and the old enemies were there too
john bryan edging his way across
the room whispering low key
"you better watch it my wife is here
carrying a knife"
and hank shrugging it off
and saying that was in
the old days in 
los angeles
can't you forget?

and of course
he couldn't because
hank had made it and 
he hadn't 

and the poets from berkeley
and the poets from los angeles
and the poets from san francisco
and max schwartz
the only man trying to get into prison
when everyone else is trying to get out
and the homosexuals
and the groupies
and the leather clad crowd too
which included one chick with 
her shriveled tits hanging out
and her male slave wearing
a dog collar

and then i grew tired
and started to leave
when i was introduced
to the rich girl from australia
who travels on her father's money 
and lived on castro street with
the homosexuals and fucks those 
who aren't

and she's got a pair of tits
that stand out
and she opens her shirt and shows
them to me and says that
she can't drink alcohol that
she's on antibiotics
and coughs and sneezes
and i figure that
she has a cold
and then she's clutching me
and shoving her tongue down
my throat
and i'm dry humping her against
the wall 
and she has her hand on 
my cock
and I have my hand down
her blouse
and she has a half-foot
of hardness threatening
to roll a lucky
seven

and she pulls back
licks her lips
smiles and says

i shouldn't be wasting your time
you remember the antibiotics
and I nod my head
and she says

i've got the clap
it won't be cleared up
for several days
but I liked your poem

the crazy john postcard
i had given her and 
i nodded my head

do you have a phone number
she said
and i nodded yes
and she took it down 
and said:

i'll call you when 
i'm well
and left the room
to french kiss this
dude in the hallway
who maybe
she wasn't going 
to tell

and so I went home alone
and beat off on the bed thinking
of this girl from houston that
i had a good thing with
a week earlier
the one buk had paid
$300 to fly to
san fancisco because 
he thought
he was in love with her
and she thinks 
she is in love with me
and me being too tired
to be in love with
anyone

the loneliness of
the clock ticking down
the hours
like an old organ grinder playing
the final chords at an unattended
funeral

---

You can find these poem in A.D. Winans — Drowning Like Li Po in a River of Red Wine