regret to inform

i won't be attending the Operation In Their Boots premiere tomorrow night.

and i truly hope everyone who was planning on seeing it, see's it.

we did some great work.

i'll spare you the intimate details of this malady, because well, they're just plain ridiculous.

the Doc's over @ the Long Beach VA suggested i stay put.

least for two weeks. then the pack goes back on.

crooked smile n' all.

figure sometimes you're swimming, pushing along and up comes a big ole' white shark.

and she takes a bite.

no real rhyme or reason, but she takes a bite.

how is your heart?

by charles bukowski

during my worst times

on the park benches

in the jails

or living with

whores

I always had this certain

contentment-

I wouldn't call it

happiness-

it was more of an inner

balance

that settled for

whatever was occurring

and it helped in the

factories

and when relationships

went wrong

with the

girls.

it helped

through the

wars and the

hangovers

the backalley fights

the

hospitals.

to awaken in a cheap room

in a strange city and

pull up the shade-

this was the craziest kind of

contentment

and to walk across the floor

to an old dresser with a

cracked mirror-

see myself, ugly,

grinning at it all.

what matters most is

how well you

walk through the

fire.

uniforms

took out my old uniform and the creases were still there. 

hadn't ironed them, or starched them, just took them right out of the closet to check for some old rank insignias.

and they were there.

the creases, not the chevrons.

so i folded them up and stacked them on my shelf, next to Joyce and Bukowski. 

then i started to write. 

began the regimen: 

blast the ipod; skim through unfinished work that looks conducive to the screenplay i'm working on, and smoke a padron.

but it wasn't happening. the words weren't coming and i wasn't writing.

went outside.

watering the tomatoes and such. - a new approach.

but i wandered back in, the sun beating down mercilously.

sought out the uniform.

as the orchestra was lightly tapping away, i came closer.  right up to the faded thread and gleaming buttons. 

yes, they had faded well. the greens now pastels and the browns and blacks very muted. 

aged.

several small tears from field operations - these were my greens, never seeing combat. 

Africa and Hawaii and Singapore, yes.

Iraq, no. never Iraq.

i put my uniform to my face.

inhale deep: crisp canvas and a hint of starch.

in the mirror i can see myself and something tells me to put them on. 

not a voice or command, just something. 

so i do.

they don't fit well. they hang on my gaunt body, two sizes too big.

as if a different man wore this uniform.

not me, chris.

and that's what's so funny.

because i find myself in the same situation as i did before.

a different man.

pre-enlistment civilian fuck.

devolved.

unemployed and broke.

ahh, with a fine accouterment: 50K in debt.

now this is what happens when you buy into the myth of college. get your degree, bust yer ass to graduate with honors, and guess what?

you get a nice piece of parchment to hang on your wall that says you have a bachelors degree. 

so what's next?

teach? 

finish up my masters?

finally to be greeted by the real world with 100,000 dollars worth of debt and usc 'connections?'

that's just not smart.

so i put the old uniform away, nice and neat and put on my new one.

my v-neck and sweats.

then i had a drink and deleted every single email from usc - suddenly the boot raised from my neck.

and now i'm writing. 

charles bukowski

lived a few blocks down from me.

santa cruz st., san pedro ca 90732.

poet. novelist. dirty old bastard.

and i like him.

a lot.

his prose ain't that hot, but his poetry is beautiful. an off-beat-odd-fellow-type beauty. something akin to a toothless hobo clutching a half empty bottle of mickey's malt liqueur under the setting sun in los angeles harbor.

recently re-read some of his poems and i've come to a disturbing conclusion.

i copy him.

not verbatim, but stylistically.

a mental road map to composition.

in fact, i think many young writers do.

in my defense, i dont think i tried to.

just happened.

seeped into my mental vernacular.

a subconscious seed planted in my medulla oblongata. maybe it happened when i looked for his grave site a few years back.

some half-assed supernatural bond.

i dunno.

but it happened.

should i apologize?

no.

he's dead. and i dont think you can copyright a mentality.

yet, the least i can do is introduce some scouts to my favorite, albeit relatively unknown, poet:

Charles Bukowski

1920-1994

one of my favorites:

I Made a Mistake

I reached up into the top of the closet

and took out a pair of blue panties

and showed them to her and

asked "are these yours?"

and she looked and said,

"no, those belong to a dog."

she left after that and I haven't seen

her since. she's not at her place.

I keep going there, leaving notes stuck

into the door. I go back and the notes

are still there. I take the Maltese cross

cut it down from my car mirror, tie it

to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave

a book of poems.

when I go back the next night everything

is still there.

I keep searching the streets for that

blood-wine battleship she drives

with a weak battery, and the doors

hanging from broken hinges.

I drive around the streets

an inch away from weeping,

ashamed of my sentimentality and

possible love.

a confused old man driving in the rain

wondering where the good luck

went.