Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sitting here at the dining room table in near-darkness, on my dad's laptop, listening to Charles Bukowski reading his poems from a CD set called "Charles Bukowski Uncensored" which I ripped to the computer and transferred to my mp3 player long ago, but because of the home computer going to the tech guy at my dad's school to be stripped completely and built up again, I transferred these and a lot of other tracks to my jump drive to hold me over until we get that computer back. I'm listening to Bukowski talk about "Vegas and pussy and victory," and I'm thinking, in the glow of this laptop screen, looking into a dark tunnel of a kitchen, that there's nothing else that could be as great as this at this time of the night. I am listening to a master wordsmith, continually reminded of why he was a master wordsmith. I don't want to be him, I don't want to ever try to imitate his style, but I like to genuflect often at his rundown, well-worn temple of words. God forever bless the man, and maybe have a few beers with him too.