reading bukowski just pisses me off

more notes from a dirty old man or cat’s table, the new tome from ondaatje…those were the choices tonite to rock my overly-stimulated, exhausted self to sleep at bedtime…and bukowski won out.  curiosity, mostly…i always find myself reaching for that comforting foray into the past or my youth, where the mention of a crazy growin- up time in an L.A. beach town draws…or the opportunity to remember exactly what was on each side of a familiar west hollywood street corner sparks a memory of a life i vaguely remember belonging to me once upon a time…

i read buk as a touchtone and with gratitude…i read his work and thank him for giving me the ability to immediately spot the bullshit ‘artists‘, the worshippers, the fan-atics, the liars–oh the poet liars!– the buk copiers and the youthful poet fakes a mile away!  i read buk’s work and get pissed off …why?  because he brings me down and puts me in a cranky-bad mood…….

yet, the relentless, angry young writer buk/richmond/beat poet, meat poet wannabees–out there by the thousands, it seems– continue on with worshipping at the cock of buk, who they see as the ultimate, the rock of “hip”…..and all i can imagine are these seedy 20-50 year-old boys, sitting in a folding chair or on top of their filthy sheets, laptops balanced precariously on their bony knees…inside mon’n pop’s house/funky apartments/dorm rooms/tiny little one-step-up-from-student-housing triplexes/teenage bedrooms filled with the stench of smelly socks and old beer, jerking off and imagining that they, someday, can follow in buk’s footsteps by simply laying down that breed of anger and convincing anyone who will listen that its REAL!…fill it in with that style of angst…add a dash of piggy-style in how they treat their imaginary high-heeled, big-breasted girlfriends in order to be COOL, and viola!  you too can self-publish online or with some help from pops and be the next most respected hipster online or on the planet!…..oh, give me a fucking break…

i read buk because i am old enough to remember the columns and the ink-stains that the l.a. free press left on the innocents’ fingertips…the sounds of the first doors lp blaring from the speakers and the smell of the incense coming out of an ocean park bookshop and later, through the haze of a beachside candleshop [he mentions]……i read buk because i can remember the taste of a pastrami and mustard on french from the deli/liquor store next door …i read buk because of steve and the impact that earth books had on literary CHOICES for my life……hell, i even had a face to face with this self-proclaimed dirty old man when i was 11 years old!  11!  and buk leered and stared and creeped me out…..yet bukowski, always bukowski and his ilk, clouds my clear vision and draws me in  at every turn…

oh, don’t get me wrong…i love the raw of his work; i love the fact that his wordsmithing was brilliant, raw, REAL ..every writer is lucky sometimes to turn a phrase, stand it on its head, view the shit of the world with a clear eye and slap it on the page…luck.  luck with how he typed out and mailed out his view of this sicko world with such drunken determination and talent….oh yes, and buk had that capability and more….but to be idolized, copied, adored, set upon literary altars and worshipped as the second-fucking-coming-of-christ, from one continent to the next?  idolized by youthful writer-wannabe college hipsters, from portland to peru and all points around and in-between each corner and crevice on this planet–or by anyone who intentionally or mistakenly or by noted reference [by buk] ever discovered rimbaud or celine or artaud or balzac…or, by those who were given these ‘non-traditionalists’ as assigned reading by some over zealous, first-year UC system english lit teacher somewhere….oh please…for all that buk was, you can line up a full column listing everything about the man and his work that could piss you off in a new york minute: a leering, ‘peepfreak’ misogynist, alcoholic train-wreck; a bitter, sad, fearful, abusive, and angry man who once in a blue moon could let go for brief, brief moments to give a glimpse of his….god forbid…damaged heart, fragility and his aching, aching loneliness…

so tonite, i read three chapters, turned out the bedside lamp and tossed and turned, unable to fall into sleep mode… then had to jump up and pace around another room of the house…  dammit bukowski!  now i’m up here like the rest of them, still talking about you at 12:47 am….pissed off……he’s laughing at us all, i know….cackling and grinning like a fool over the absurdity of what’s become of the words he shat onto the page…i always feel like i want to scream it from the mountaintop:  remember how he felt about all of his writing contemporaries when he was alive?  why on earth do you think he wouldn’t have hated each and every one of you!!!!    and, you all manage to still bow to him, knowing and loving the fact that he would have kicked each and every one of you in the head, given half the chance in the day…..

god bukowski pisses me off….

About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i release the gamut of tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
This entry was posted in beat poetry, venice meat poets, Correspondence, meat poetry, north beach poets, peace and freedom, poetry, poets & snippets, San Francisco poetry, sonoma county poets, street theater. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to reading bukowski just pisses me off

  1. lindalou5150 says:

    Reblogged this on Shadowdance.

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