Everyone needs a fan.
Some earn their living from fans.
Some despise them, yet still do the things that attracts them.

My city attracts fans.
They come from all over the Plain.
Their favorite writer lived and died here.

His wife still occupies the only home the writer ever owned.
He's buried in our local cemetery.
The headstone isn't fancy it bears his full name, his years on earth and some boxing gloves. Though all the stories I've ever heard said he always fought in the streets.
And two words.
"Don't Try".

Fans often leave beer cans, wine bottles, cigars and cigarettes, notes and printed copies of his work.
Which to me is all fine except when they decide to visit after hours and leave their messes behind.
If you come here seeking to catch a glimpse of his home and maybe even his wife. You will only see large old Sycamore trees and giant palm fronds that hide his home like a Gisha's silk fan across her face.

If you don't already know where it is good luck asking any of the locals.
San Pedros always been a rather ruff port town the place where sailors and ****** came to spend their money and test their skills.

They'll lead you all over, up and down streets similar to his with its Royal Palms lining each side of the block.
All poking their fronds towards the heavens a hundred feet above the L.A Harbor.

When you come here you will be welcomed with white California smiles but when you start asking questions about his ivy hidden classic Los Angeles Spanish style villa with its fruit trees and grape vines.
We'll first tell you to please be respectful which will only help convince you we are telling you the truth.
Before we write down directions sending you to the wrong place.

That's how Hank would've wanted it.

Reading him is like                                                             ­                 
eating fine chocolates from a white box
Just one or two is not enough
But too many and you run the risk
of them seeming all the same
And if you really over indulge
you might ***** them all up
and never eat chocolates again

Reading at the bar
Drinking at the library
         —Henry Chinaski

Chinaski, Chinaski come over here
God Chinaski you stink of beer
Your late again and your work is slow
I should write you up, one more and they will let you go

Chinaski thinks to himself you'll see, I will not conform to who you think I should be
You can stuff your job, the pay is lousy anyway
I have better ways to pass my days

Down to the civic Chinaski did trot
They wrote up his resignation and cut him a cheque
Chinaski took it with great cheer walked down the road and bought a couple bottles of wine and a fifth of ***** and a six pack of beer

He got in his car and off to the track to blow the lot on some halfpenny nag
And to pick up a lady to befriend, maybe get lucky and back to mine, where we can share some bottles of wine

If not so lucky then that's fine by me, I'll get drunk and write my short stories
There's been one constant in my life, longer even than I was married to my wife
That's my typewriter it's special you see
It follows me from room to room, cheers me up when I feel gloom
I put the paper in and turn the carriage and start to write of love and marriage of growing up and moving out, of fights and bars and women and cars.

I write of being on the street of all the women that I meet
I write of work and racing, I write of hardship that I'm facing

I write of the tough life I've had but I don't write it for you to be sad
I write to make you smile and laugh
I write because it helps you see, I write it to cleanse me

If I make you happy along the way then well what really is there left to say

Have a good day, have a Chinaski day

I've never read poems by other poets the way I read Bukowski's poetry
His legacy feeds my intense hunger for something other than what I know

And

It is worth my dollar
to learn more of what he thought
about the rigmarole of life, humans and ***.