“He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels,” Leonard Cohen, to whom my ear is constantly tuned, opined on Charles Bukowski.
Beat generation, drunk and open to any substance that will affect speed, stamina and courage Bukoski withered and dropped out finally in 1994.
Sure, he is a far verse from Banjo Paterson but Bukowski, amongst other pursuits, was a horse player with his best being brilliant and others? Well, he was probably hung over or having a bad trip.
Being in a certain vintage “the damnation of Buk”, given to me on Father’s Day, appeals.
the damnation of Buk
getting old, and older, concerned that
you might not get your driver’s license
renewed, concerned that the hangovers
last longer, concerned that you might
not reach the age of 85,
concerned that the poems will stop
arriving.
concerned that you are concerned.
concerned that you might die in the
spa.
concerned that you might die on the
freeway while driving in from the
track.
concerned that you might die in your
lap pool.
concerned that the remainder of your
teeth
will not last.
concerned about dying but not about
death.
concerned that people will no longer
consider you dangerous when
drunk.
concerned that you will forget who
the enemy is.
concerned that you will forget how to
laugh.
concerned that there will be nothing to
drink in hell.
and concerned you will have to
listen to
one poetry reading
after another
after another…
the Los Angeles poets
the New York poets
the Iowa poets
the black poets
the white poets
the Chicano poets
the 3rd world poets
the female poets
the homosexual poets
the lesbian poets
the bisexual poets
the sexless poets
the failed poets
the famous poets
the dead poets
the etc. poets
concerned that the toteboard will
explode into flowers of
shit
and the night will never
come.
