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.