The day Bukowski died https://t.co/DoZFfCYgjW
— Charles Bukowski (@bukowski_net) March 9, 2020
Charles Bukowski
Sunday with Hank
pain without reason you said i understood immediately but Hank aren’t we born into this situation
forever we seek to understand is pain the ultimate secret knowledge Hank you’re there with Buddha is that what he found
women understand but in the end we are all human what’s between our legs is incidental
i’ve stood on city sidewalks on the streets you’ve lived on and everything is the same the rat race is quiet in most places
i love watching the angels downtown we are a rainbow of gray brown and black
some in the name of ethics money and pretense call it trauma or grieving or processing events
to be beat raped tortured sodomized insulted belittled ignored and cast aside drugged whipped lied to and left to die some of us in shame and lies in the most dangerous of nuclear families
Hank you’ve been away from me remember DeLongpre i used to stay there too and how many more places we have been it’s been so very long
your thoughts and absolute surrender to the madness of our lives you painted beauty in it’s natural form although it wasn’t what they thought
hey baby since you’re up there in the clouds can you ask the Main Man for me when you aren’t too busy now
if the reason for our mortal pain is so we will seek Him out
spread the WLS
meine patina
Buk it’s 2020
my hero Hanky baby
and i’m still alive
these last few days
i’ve surveyed her face
our whore saint city
don’t fret she loves us still
these last few days
i’ve driven by
the schools i’ve been in
i don’t remember a damned thing
my first day of pre school
i was late
on account my dad had to wait
in the Mobil lines for five hours
hey Buk
do you remember
these last few days
every grade year the same old shit
the Pilgrims the marches the maths the farces
the Nina the Pinta the Santa Maria
Sesame Street Hee Haw Fat Albert and Lawrence Welk
and by the time Ronnie Raygun came around
i was branded diagnosed exposed and pigeonholed
the patina of fine psychobullshitary
casted on my soul
these last few days
intuitively speaking Buk
i don’t feel its right to blame
after all i have a conscience
id ego and a touch of naughtiness too
i don’t want to go down that way
remember the time over on Las Palmas Ave
when i called the principal
the devil’s panty liner
i had more class
than to just call her a knit wit
verbal theatrics have been
my little blue bird
these last few days
my bones hurt more
i linger by the antioxidants
and pay some attention
to the collagen talks
my hair line fractures
from the days of Face
are bald and angry
so i take turmeric supplements
during the day
these last few days
the stains of my sins
are rinsing away
leaving a fall hued patina
glazed on my spirit
these last few days Buk
the beer bottles on the streets
cigarette butts and paper sheets
blowing in the wind
make me feel sentimental
where has most of my life gone
is this what happiness is
to feel the bumps upon my skin
the knuckles of my hands
being cupped by my finger tips
as i walk under the bridge
where the many roads
to numbness took me
these days i swear Buk
i have felt
an orgasmic magnificence
flow through my veins
but there are still
some challenges
spread the WLS
to trip
shivering in the bedroom
trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel
middle aged
anxiety on my tongue
finger nail polished half chewed off
scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle
the difference in the mosh pits was
we all beat
each other up together
the other morning i went out
to see some band play
they weren’t quite what i remembered
slower thicker grayer
yet still crazy
jacked up rockin
in some of our heads
high on beet juice and weed
when i stand in my room
i don’t want to just be rockin in my head
i should go to the beauty clinic
and laser off this scar
but i’m not ashamed by it
besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room
and offend some old Barbie
i’d like to be banged by that bass player
and have him pluck on my thing
and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington
singing Spanish riffs into the mike
the band has never heard of me
but we both know how to twirl and punch
and they have to go home to their wives
standing in my bedroom
my moves aren’t quite as swift
the best band i ever knew went disco
and the new bands lack the rage
i try to start the mosh pit
and give the bass player my number
but they twitter about health
things
yoga things
beet juice recipes
CBD things
i watch the boba settle in my milk tea
i know what my fate is
but it’s too gruesome to process
i won’t land the bassist
spread the WLS
the price of peanut butter
of course i remember the old Safeway, Hank. in closing my eyes i can see the Mahatma Rice Genie on the little rice bags and Jiffy cost less than a dollar. i was not taller than a yard stick, yet i knew my lime green pastel knit dresses were an infamy. Hank, i recall the prime parties on Berendo street, the last of the beehive hairdo elegant women in turquoise bell-bottoms, i a barefooted brat. and on alternate Saturdays the biker parties in the Silver Lake Hills. the Harleys looked like stallions. in the middle of the week, i can’t remember where i’d sleep, but AC/DC dueled with Tom Jones in my dreams. now, Hank, we have non-GMO juice stands and designer coffee drinks. i’m about a yard stick and a quarter tall now and i dress in black. i still enjoy Tom and Brian, but Nirvana and Cornell own my heart. i finally read the Torah too. but the fears, doubts, agonies and uncertainties are still within my universe. Safeway is now Vons. House of Pies is still there too, i feed on their Western Spaghetti. i’m going at it in a round-about way. Volkswagons’ and Mustangs aren’t what they used to be, but they’ve cut down on bad emissions. Hank, you wouldn’t believe, there’s almond, cashew, sunflower, pistachio and Brazil Nut butter. i don’t talk much, i type on the phone, even on dates, sitting right across the table from them all. i suppose i’ll never see a good bra burning anymore, i giggled at it as a child. but, they have apps for that now. i never really fit in any particular time in LA. from 8 tracks to Alexa and frozen peas to organic produce delivery. i don’t know, Hank. peanut butter today is quite expensive.
spread the WLS
bar fight haiku
the wind at 6 a.m.
i guess now i have to haul
ass on my own. my dog, my tree,
my home, my life. all put away,
in the chambers of my heart.
damn it woman. how can it go on?
i chase your scent, the ring in your
sound. the laugh in the rain, the pound
in your heart. and there i stand.
though broken i am not. i never said anything
to this thought. but you who made me whole,
when i said i could no more. you made me move.
in a direction in front of me.
the wind walks on rice paper. no trail of
you i see. footsteps in the river of
forgiveness washing me free, today and forever.
this is what you left for me.
as i sit alone in this bed of
my own humanity. i feel your touch of love
and there is a 6 a.m. in every hour. you are
in the sun, the moon, the stars, the fog.
you are in the laughter of my
sons and the tenderness of my daughters.
your steel of spirit in the doves on
city cables. in the potted sage.
put me in my proper place,
when you receive me in His kingdom.
until then coffee and cigs;
6 a.m. in life unrepentant.
-to Jane and Hank-
spread the WLS
1.16
Henry i know you can see
me. in my rut i can feel the
blisters in my spirit swelling
up again. the prayers only
make it worse.
Henry how did you ever walk
from out of the doors into the
open air? where did you find
the time to convert misery
into diamonds?
it’s so so late in life but
i haven’t been born. the
many things inside of this
bone cage cannot easily come out,
Henry, why?
there is no sun and no moon
divine. the hours twirl and multiply
into clouds of nothing. buildings, caves,
the underpass dull with expression and
righteousness of self.
Henry i remain intact full of holes
with nothing but my germs and
dirty fingernails stuffed with
the scabs of days gone by.
spread the WLS
to Buk
sins and smiles
angelic nothings cry down
cigarette ash at your kitten heels
typer-bang/bang of your letter gun
heart spilled onto the book
with pencil shavings
by my side
innocent beast with naked brain sleeves
long lost duker wild at heart
contender of my wits-end
jumper of cliffs lover of untender whores
drinker of thoughts
captivator of fears contrary to your view
godfather of streets
cardinal of bums
sultan of bars pope of poems
big daddy writer always tried in spite of all
spread the WLS
Hank
The Northwest has a different meaning
in this hour of the day.
Hey, Hank!
I’m trying to reach you by the telephone
standing in my blue boots,
but your old call box isn’t living here no more.
Hollywood and Western has truly made a switch.
No more ladies with the leopard print.
No more gentlemen with eyes to squint
at the devastation
of where you
and I grew up.
You know Hank, I never knew the snow.
Not the way nature intended anyway.
Yet, here I stand on Sunset, check.
Western, check. Hollywood, check.
Melbourne, Vermont check, check check!
Like when I was 20 summers long
stretching out my eardrums
hoping to catch some of your phrases;
some of your breaths.
A mere little prospect. Tiny.
Seeking you out Hank.
Like snowflakes on my tongue.
