I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.

He was such an unhappy man
that Bukowski.

He had nothing but his
                               women
                                        and
                                            beer.
(He has me beat there)

He saw the worst in
  everyone.

He loved nothing but his
  type writer.

He only found serenity within his
                                            words
                                                  and
                                                     scribbles.
(We're equal there)

He was such an unhappy man
that Bukowski.

His misery and tribulations
lead to writing all his tiny miracles
and
that's
so
sad.

And in those tiny miracles
he sounded
more
and
more
mad.

Mad man.
            Honest man.
                             Drunk man.
                                           Wretched man.
All true.

Spending eternity on a bar stool
clothes covered in shit
mind in other things
reeking of cheap booze
                                 and
                                     cheaper perfume.

He didn't see beauty
in
anything.

The only person he liked
was an 8 year old
who once pointed out that
the ocean was
                  very
                      ugly.

He dubbed that kid a genius.
I'm worried he'd call me a genius too..
the next time we meet.

I meet him everyday actually
He's always cynical
with nothing but talk of
fucking,
drinking,
more fucking
and horses.

I didn't mind his smell.

Sometimes
he'd suddenly stop babbeling away
about the 4th horse.

He'd tug my sleeve and point
at the man who just
entered the bar
and ordered the cheapest booze.

"He's gonna die you know." He said
in that raspy brittle voice of his.

"Mhmmm...
He's gonna die tonight
when he finishes
his tenth beer.

He's gonna pick a fight
with the biggest motherfucker
here
and tell him that he still likes to suck on his
mom's titty.

He's gonna fight the good fight
but he's gonna lose.

That's the story of his life
                                  failures
                                          atop
                                              more
                                                  failures.

And when he comes to it he's gonna order that
tenth beer.
He's gonna crawl out of here
to his shithole apartment.
He's gonna pick up the phone
pick up his phonebook
and dial all his friends still in town to tell them it's his
birthday.

And they'll just hang up on his face.

He's gonna die when he comprehends
that
     nobody
              cares;
that
    nobody
             understands.

That all he ever did would never amount to
much.

He's gonna die in his bed with the tenth beer
smearing his bleached sheets."

I cringed.
I stared at the man longer
                                    and
                                        harder
attempting to capture a snapshot of his features.
I should go there I though.
I should go and ask him for his name.
His job.
His age.
His loved one's name,
and if he had a pet.

I should stop him from buying that
tenth beer.

He turned just as I managed to gather the will to go to
him.

He was Bukowski.


                                            I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.


That Bukowski was such an
unhappy man.

The more miserable he got
the more tiny mircales
he tardily
penned.

The more lonesome he was
the more women
he vacuously
fucked...
secretly wishing that they'd
be there in
the
morning.

None of them
did.

The more failures he encountered
the more beer
he rapidily
downed...
openly stating that the booze
would warm his shriveled body
when none of the women
                                  could
                                        heat
                                              it
                                               up.


                                          I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.



That Bukowski was such an
unhappy man.

He seemingly gave up on
everything
even his tombstone read
                                   "Don't Try."

But he did.
he survived
for 74 years.
Even when he couldnt talk of
fucking,
drinking,
more fucking
and horses.

I don't know how he did it.
I guess staring at those words he wrote
through the years
did him good.

Art made everything more bearable
and in Bukowski's case...
I think the music helped too
He was quite fond of that Tchaikovsky.

So I press play
and listen to symphony #5.

Glorious.

I too now am staring at the words I wrote
through the years.
From failed loved poems
when I was 13yrs old
                                to
                                  this.

But more importantly.
I'm staring at the words Bukowski wrote
through the years.

What he did and what I am doing
might actually amount to something
mine's a tiny speck in comparison.
but it's something...



If Bukowski with all his unhappiness
could survive
                  then
                        I
                        can
                            too.


                                           I want to pull off a Bukowski.