To Charles

I was reminded of an event in my life last night that I thought I would share with you, so I'm going to tell you a little story.

Several years back, when I had started writing poetry as a bit of a hobby, I went in search of an open mic night to try some of it out. I happened on a little bar, a single not-quite-forgotten leftover, a lone hanger-on, of Chicago's seedier days. Surrounded by $20 cover charges, velvet ropes, and block after block of new construction, theme-restaurants, and high-end retail, Weeds Tavern sits alone and discreet at the corner of Dayton and Weed, otherwise known as the "Back of Beyond".

It's old, wooden, and worn. But clean, not dirty, save the thick clouds of cigarette smoke. Most of the regulars drink tequila and Old Style, and there's always at least one pizza being consumed on the bar.

I walked in, nervous, sweaty, a bit overweight, and, asking myself if I should really do this, ordered a Jameson on the rocks.

There was a huge sloppy cake with candles on it sitting at the end of the bar. It was Charles Bukowski's birthday, I was informed. Everyone who read their work that night would also get to read a Bukowski poem. Not being a Chicago native, and having spent my last 6 years locked in a UNT College of Music practice room for 8 hours a day, I said, "But I don't know who Charles Bukowski is." I'd seen Barfly years ago, but again, I was too clueless and careless to really care or realize.

Once the laughter died down, I was told it really didn't matter. Just pick a poem and read it before I read one of mine. That sounded OK, I replied, and I settled in to my whiskey and some very good poetry. From both the people there and of Charles Bukowski.

I began to see Charles as a hard man. A jaded man. And a drunk man. Somebody scary. Possibly mean. A man who wore lots of wool, and dirty white t-shirts, permanently stained with spaghetti sauce and bourbon. I heard Charles tell me about how he vomited on himself, or the hooker sitting on his couch. The morning he nearly passed out while taking a shit. Killing spiders while he typed at the window. Charles was not somebody I'd know, or talk to. I saw only hopelessness and anger.

And then it was my turn.

I sat down on the stool, scooting it noisily under my ass on the wooden planks of the stage. The single hot spotlight shone on me. I felt like I was being interrogated. I had just been handed a book called, "Love is a Dog From Hell," by Charles Bukowski. I had no idea where to begin, or what to choose. I only wanted to keep the mood of the evening going, and have something through which to segue into my own work.

So, with nothing and everything to lose, I opened the book randomly and began to read. A shudder came down my spine, and his words flowed from my mouth and became mine. I was immersed in his plea, and Charles Bukowski was suddenly the most beautiful human being I had ever met. To this day, when I hear or think of Charles Bukowski, this is what enters my mind:

quiet clean girls in gingham dresses ... all I've ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes,
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women ­ I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.

all I've ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen.

when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.

I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or
predatory.

"don't ever bring a whore around," I tell my
few friends, "I'll fall in love with her."

"you couldn't stand a good woman, Bukowski."

I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.

I know that she exists
but where is she upon this earth
as the whores keep finding me?