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…