Really, Bukowski had it pretty good <br />living ecstatically and bitterly, living drunken <br />and sexual, and finally eating better than Li Po <br />or John Clare, eating regular at The Sizzler <br />in spite of the 123.2 pollution plagues <br />and 419 ongoing wars, in spite of his <br />own acne ugliness. Sitting in cracker crumbs, <br />pork 'n' bean stains on the t-shirt with his <br />own face lithograph-reproduced on the front <br />and the back—recorded catastrophic alcohol <br />illumination coma bleeding gut, casual desperate <br />whore friendships in rundown flats, really <br />sickened self hate lucidity struggle <br />fury against his demented ass pounding father. <br />Recorded bestial labor in slaughter houses, DTs <br />in flop houses—mostly a clear read of <br />the consequences for some of the selves <br />including himself, in the world, <br />legally, illegitimately cheated, <br />until he finally got lucky: <br />the best include the worst. The Linda <br />he dedicated his work to in the end, must've <br />endured a lot. Old Jew in law musician <br />uncle, talking a month before he died <br />about his first love in Warsaw, said to me, <br />'because of her, I learned to play the violin.'<br /><br />Doren Robbins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bukowski-in-love/
