Bukowski and me.....
This was written when I was 56....I am now 68 and still do not try......
I have lived the life of Bukowski yet lived to tell the tale. I dwelled in the wake of shadows drowned at sea, a nihilistic misanthrope and loved every fucking minute of it. In all honesty I am not always happy I lived to tell the tale. I am a low dive low bottom drunk who wallows in the sordid dark side of life. I hung at a place called Gryphons that was the seediest black hole in Knoxville and almost everyone there had at least BA's....crack was rampant but I was a good drunk and never touched the stuff... black tooth cranked women with nothing on but fishnets and skimpy bras giving 5 dollar blow jobs while you sit on a bar stool chain smoking Marlboros looking at yourself in the mirror behind the beer stained bar wallowing in madness and self pity...I fucking loved it. One winter witching hour I threw a bottle at that mirror looking for the heart of saturday night and cracked the hell out of it...nobody said a word. Leaving one morning the sun barely awake we found a body behind the bar nude battered blood seeping on gravel grey red...the guy had been stabbed to death...so we got a beer fired a smoke and talked about it. I wore my badge of membership proudly....this is my life...this is how I wanted to die...why I did not I haven't a fucking clue. I still walk the dark streets...broken wounded... and for the most part am indifferent to much that is around me. After all this time I still wear my badge proudly although I haven't had a drink in 7 years...after all these years I still feel as if I do not belong. I think I hear the bells ringing....
I started drinking again soon after writing.