No matter how outrageous his life or his writings, I always feel better after I’ve read a few pages of this
genius’ poetry. I came across a couple today that really spoke to me…when does he ever not speak to me?
this by Charles Bukowski ©
being drunk at the typer beats being with any woman I’ve ever seen or known or heard about
like
Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Garbo, Harlow M.M. or any
of the thousands that come and go on that celluloid screen
or the temporary girls I’ve seen so lovely
on park benches, on buses, at dances and parties, at
beauty contests, cafes, circuses, parades, department
stores, skeet shoots, balloon flys, author races, rodeos,
bull fights, mus wrestling, roller derbies, pie bakes,
churches, volleyball games, boat races, country fairs,
rock concerts, jails, laundromats or wherever
being drunk at this typer beats being with any woman
I’ve ever seen or
known.
this from a woman writer by Trisha Sugarek ©
being sober at the keyboard beats being with any man
I’ve ever seen or known or heard about
like
Prince Charles, Donald Trump, Alan Rickman, Liam Neisen, Edward Norton,
Anthony Hopkins, and yes, Hank Bukowski or
any temporary men like the sailor who drugged me with a sensual
world with no rules, the marine who I spent half my life with, the construction
man on the streets of NYC whose eyes
had a minute affaire with mine,
gone in an instant with much regret on
both our parts
the dancer so in tune with his body,
my best friend for decades,
the mandolin player,
the forbidden passion, another woman’s husband,
the jazz piano player,
being sober at this keyboard beats being with any man
I’ve ever seen or
known.
a good gang, after all by Charles Bukowski ©
I keep hearing from the old dogs,
men who have been writing for
decades,
poets all,
they’re still at their
typers
writing better than
ever
past wives and wars and
jobs
and all the things that
happen.
many I disliked for personal
and artistic
reasons…
but what I overlooked was
their endurance and
their ability to
improve.
these old dogs
living in smoky rooms
pouring the
bottle…
they lash against the
typer ribbons: they came
to
fight.
I hope to be one of these ‘old dogs’ someday. Fighting to hone my craft, speaking out, encouraging others where I find them, writing decent prose. I’m certain Bukowski would find me to be a ‘sell out’. I haven’t suffered for my craft unless you count death, forsaking all others for it, being so blunt it has cost me people I cared about, and ignoring my own health. But I hope I’m an old dog of a writer and poet… someday…maybe when I’m dead and gone. Hope springs eternal.
My Interview with Charles Bukowski (posthumously)