After Bukowski's Too Much
Bukowski was a good sort,
if you saw him in bad light
you'd say he was
lecherous maybe
but then he
got plenty under his belt,
quit worrying about
cynicism,
took that wretched dog
for a walk.
When I saw his photo
in biography
filled with
Budweiser
I saw rings
of years
like medallions
around his pupils:
he wrote about the everyday
hiding places of fear.
And
with each compassionate burst
I imagined him
turning
more lonely with
blues -
a battered guitar
weeping,
his words careering into life
out of his guts.
His typing hands
lurching
like a helpless
kite,
whetting his
appetite
and then talking again with
the old saddened voices -
I felt I could feel
his ticking heart.
He just
cursed and cursed
and lurched and
lurched and
he was telling me,
"You've got to walk out,
go look for your home,
your heart."
"Where are you?" I asked him,
and he just groaned.
Now when people
say to me, "That
Charlie Bukowski,
he was such a gem,
glowing through, glowing
through all that haze,"
I disagree with them,
and we push him
aside, talk about more steady
writers, like John on Patmos.
[ 16 January 2003: Message edited by: WordyOne ]
Bukowski was a good sort,
if you saw him in bad light
you'd say he was
lecherous maybe
but then he
got plenty under his belt,
quit worrying about
cynicism,
took that wretched dog
for a walk.
When I saw his photo
in biography
filled with
Budweiser
I saw rings
of years
like medallions
around his pupils:
he wrote about the everyday
hiding places of fear.
And
with each compassionate burst
I imagined him
turning
more lonely with
blues -
a battered guitar
weeping,
his words careering into life
out of his guts.
His typing hands
lurching
like a helpless
kite,
whetting his
appetite
and then talking again with
the old saddened voices -
I felt I could feel
his ticking heart.
He just
cursed and cursed
and lurched and
lurched and
he was telling me,
"You've got to walk out,
go look for your home,
your heart."
"Where are you?" I asked him,
and he just groaned.
Now when people
say to me, "That
Charlie Bukowski,
he was such a gem,
glowing through, glowing
through all that haze,"
I disagree with them,
and we push him
aside, talk about more steady
writers, like John on Patmos.
[ 16 January 2003: Message edited by: WordyOne ]
