Bukowski, Pt. II

I mean, for a sixty year old guy writing in the 70s, he still can be pretty entertaining.

And he can write a pretty good story too:

she drives into the parking lot while
I am leaning up against the fender of my car.
she's drunk and her eyes are wet with tears:
"you son of a bitch, you fucked me when you
didn't want to. you told me to keep phoning
you, you told me to move closer into town,
then you told me to leave you alone."

it's all quite dramatic and I enjoy it.
"sure, well, what do you want?"

"I want to talk to you, I want to go to your
place and talk to you..."

"I'm with somebody now. she's in getting a
sandwich."

"I want to talk to you... it takes a while
to get over things. I need more time."

"sure. wait until she comes out. we're not
inhuman. we'll all have a drink together."

"shit," she says, "oh shit!"

she jumps into her car and drives off.

the other one comes out, "who was that?"

"an ex-friend."



now she's gone and I'm sitting here drunk
and my eyes seem wet with tears.

it's very quiet and I feel like I have a spear
rammed into the center of my gut.

I walk to the bathroom and puke.

mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything
about mercy?



Bukowski is pretty much the only poet who I will gladly and soberly pick up and read from cover to cover. I can't really think of any other poets I'd usually even bother to read. Maybe it's how simple it is, simple things for simple people, but I'd buy all his books if I had the money (he's got at least a couple dozen).

Some of them are pretty cheap, and always easily available. You should go buy one!