SKID ROW'S POET - TO THE WHORE WHO STOLE HIS POEMS

It's said that Charles Bukowski got more 'tang than a WWII sailor on a weekend pass.

Chicks dug him for his Bukowski-ness. Whatever that means.

Early in his life it's said many girls found him depraved-looking. Truth be told, he was a weird-lookin' dude. But also, he was one of those dudes that grew into his looks.

Call it the upside of being a dude. Yeah, we may drop dead first, but if we're lucky we age like fine wine. Or in Bukowski's case, really fuckin' good Kentucky moonshine.

He was definetly a better-looking older man. He wasn't Tyrone Power or anything but he had character. Essence. So chicks, groupies, came in droves.

And when all else failed, they were mere drinking buddies.

So check out this quirky, if not desperate-sounding poem Bukowski wrote to some dame who lifted his papers. Poetry, in fact.

It's funny, sad and true all at once. But try not to chuckle... You're reading primal creative frustration. The dude was passionate about his art in an age before floppies and flash drives.

To The Whore Who Took My Poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
-- Charles Bukowski

Now check out this awesome clip from the acclaimed Bukowksi documentary "Born into This"

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BUKOWSKI - SKID ROW'S POET No. 2

In most of my circles, I get the impression from most of my uppity buddies that the works of writer Charles Bukowski are grossly undervalued. I'll hear something like, "Bukowski? Whatever ..." Blow me. You know who you are.

It's a crime. The more and more I discover his often anti-social prose - and believe you-me, there's a ton of it - the more I discover something new and intriguing.

But in this super-quick update, check out this poem called "Nirvana." It's quite different for Bukowski. It seems to be at a slower pace. He's somewhere peaceful, somewhere the young Bukowski perhaps would've liked to have stayed.

In a weird way, it's the ultra-American poem. Truck stop diner; waitresses. The whole bit ...

Enjoy.

Before you check out the poem, though, click HERE to hear an awesome NPR radio show about Bukowski.

"Nirvana"
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
- Charles Bukowski

Now check out a nifty short film (by Tyler Martinolich) based on the above poem. Pretty damn cool...

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