It was hailing
Bukowskis on the glossy hardwood floor
mail annex post office begot clutter clatter
in a raspy inebriation ; half smoked Pall Mall in a chipped glass ashtray , white smoke swirling into literary legend , smoldering ash threatening to upset the balance .
You gonna finish that ? An ancient beater parked on a dull street against a white concrete curb . American flag stencil- painted flutters against the hot asphalt . Some kid painted it long ago with an address number for a song .
I didn’t want to tell you about the bottle in the toilet tank , hiding from the enemy . But , we’ll share it if you give me a hint .
parenthetical aside : I was sweating a poetry class momentarily at the university , brewing homemade hootch , wondering from where the poetry prof was visiting while the Drunken Poet was praising live American bums over dead Greek gods and opening another bottle and pissing away another bottle of whatever was available .
Bukowskis were pouring out , anguish , open pages dog-eared . What’s black and white and read all over ? Ham Sandwich in a Pedro bar , Ham On Rye , Love Is a Dog From Hell , Hollywood , drink, You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense ……
’til you pass out , Buk old boy , once again .
He was never just another unwashed poet squeezing life perspicaciously , puking Hamms and Bud and popping poetry ’til he couldn’t stop ; writing , performing , drinking until he had to .