If you’re expecting a poem, this isn’t it.
It might not even be prose… I don’t know.
as I write,
a combination of bourbon and rye
with a foamy Guinness finish
is lapping against the walls of my stomach;
I’m intoxicated, and I feel good…
but I digress.
I just want to share the experience.
Anyway, there I was in a Skid Row bar
enjoying my whiskey when I overheard
a conversation.
Bukowski was mentioned.
I happened to have a copy of
‘The People Look Like Flowers at Last’
in my bag, and I - already feeling light and fluffy- took it out and waved it around
as if it were the congressional medal of honor.
A man spoke up. He was a very old man;
wrinkled and hunched over,
and he wore a colorful fedora upon his
(likely) hairless head.
He claimed to have met Bukowski
in the very bar we were drinking in tonight.
I was intrigued; I bought him a drink
and he told me the whole tale.
As it goes, Bukowski was in the bar one night,
drunk and waving his name around and saying things like “oh, c’mon! I’m Charles Bukowski! The writer… the immortal poet.”
It sounded like Chinaski - and this guy
didn't look like much of a reader, so I decided
to give his story some credit.
Anyhow, the man I was speaking with was
there that night, and he had something to say.
He told Bukowski “you’re an *** hole!
You might be big with the colleges
and the fancy journals, but down here
you’re a drunken *** Just drink your *****
and shut your ******* mouth!”
He seemed to become angry even as he spoke to me. I was in awe!
There I was - in Skid Row of all places -
sitting as close as I will ever sit
to my greatest influence.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 10:48 PM UTC
If you’re expecting a poem, this isn’t it.
It might not even be prose… I don’t know.
as I write,
a combination of bourbon and rye
with a foamy Guinness finish
is lapping against the walls of my stomach;
I’m intoxicated, and I feel good…
but I digress.
I just want to share the experience.
Anyway, there I was in a Skid Row bar
enjoying my whiskey when I overheard
a conversation.
Bukowski was mentioned.
I happened to have a copy of
‘The People Look Like Flowers at Last’
in my bag, and I - already feeling light and fluffy- took it out and waved it around
as if it were the congressional medal of honor.
A man spoke up. He was a very old man;
wrinkled and hunched over,
and he wore a colorful fedora upon his
(likely) hairless head.
He claimed to have met Bukowski
in the very bar we were drinking in tonight.
I was intrigued; I bought him a drink
and he told me the whole tale.
As it goes, Bukowski was in the bar one night,
drunk and waving his name around and saying things like “oh, c’mon! I’m Charles Bukowski! The writer… the immortal poet.”
It sounded like Chinaski - and this guy
didn't look like much of a reader, so I decided
to give his story some credit.
Anyhow, the man I was speaking with was
there that night, and he had something to say.
He told Bukowski “you’re an *** hole!
You might be big with the colleges
and the fancy journals, but down here
you’re a drunken *** Just drink your *****
and shut your ******* mouth!”
He seemed to become angry even as he spoke to me. I was in awe!
There I was - in Skid Row of all places -
sitting as close as I will ever sit
to my greatest influence.