I watched my very own Charles Bukowski eat a tangerine outside of the arthouse where we were reading.
His name is not really Bukowski, but he has told tales in the same vein as the Laureate of Drunkards for longer than I have been alive.
I have listened to that same back alley patois, and barroom wisdom for long enough that I feel a certain level of comfort in calling the old gizzard this municipality's own Charles Bukowski.
The grizzled old poet is telling wanton tales of love and honeydew.
He goes on and on, recounting the times that he's drunk strong potato liquor with Bengal tigers in the backseats of roaring taxis on his way to parties hosted by zebras and gazelles.
We each light a cigarette, pausing to smoke for a while.
Seeking to continue the conversation with my salty comrade, yet knowing my own stories cannot compete, I surge onward nonetheless.
His interruptions jam my traffic before I can even make it onto the onramp of his particular, peculiar highway.
His mouth is already working, though his tangerine consumed.
He's chewing his next story into digestible, deliverable bits.
And, now he's chewing the rind.
His mouth, his words, his life, and my own for all of it, is full of zest.