Ode to Charles Bukowski

Ode to Charles Bukowski
The Laureate of American Low Life
8/16/20 – 3/9/94
 
Bukowski was born in Germany, and emigrated to the U.S. when he was a baby.  He grew up with an overbearing critical German and a mother who did not protect him for her fear of  retribution from her insecure husband.
 
Bukowski grew up suffering of terrible and painful boils that use to cover his body, and not being fine in his facial features,  chose the life of being a loner and making the authors of books he borrowed from the local library in Los Angeles his best friends.  He grew up in the Depression times when his father bounced from job to job.
 
He often was picked on, and learned to love getting into fights, whether he won or lost. It was a way of getting out all the anger accumulated from not getting the love he deserved. When he mowed the lawn, his father would inspect his work, and make Charles use the scissors for edging the corners of the lawn.  His father also enjoyed beating his son with the belt and his fists on a regular basis.
 
In time,  Charles grew to love alcohol to cover his lack of love and insecurity of  his home and school life.  The last
time his father went to beat him,  Charles, in high school and now filled out struck back at his father, and it was the  it was the end of his father’s physical beatings. 
 
One day his father found the writings of his son, and entered Charles room to give his son the only compliment his shriveled soul could give  – “I like your stories,” as he  handed his sons writings back to Charles.
Charles lived a life of getting on the bus, living in flop houses,  and working whatever jobs he could find,  and drinking and writing and working and hanging out at bars and soliciting ladies of the evening or having drunks as girlfriends until he was fired or kicked out of the rental space to repeat his actions in the next town.
 
He was tough, did whatever the boss asked of him, but also shared his honest thoughts with bosses that often got him fired.  He worked in department store basements,  putting auto brakes in boxes,  on the rail roads, and his longest job was working in the Post Office until he finally was hired to write full time shortly before his demise.  It took a long time for his writings to be noticed by publishers,  but he kept on writing - because he was a writer.
 
Bukowski wrote 21 books, and 2, 618 poems.  He hated doing public readings of poetry, because the beauty of poetry is in the process of writing, not in the adoration of fans.  His fame sent him letters and pictures of lady fans
who often wanted to meet Charles, and he often obliged.  He said a writer cannot really write with clarity until he/she hits age 50.  My favorite book is Ham on Rye.
 
He even had the chance to live in the bungalow of a rich patron,  but chose the life of the streets to keep him tough and for his muse in writing.  As homely as Bukowski was in look,  he no problem getting his share of the lady action.  Many were poets and wanted feedback on their work to which his reply was “There are many poets, but no so much true poetry.”  In spite of his gruff exterior, and his bragging  he could live a life without true love,  he did marry before he divorced, and had a wonderful daughter as a result.
 
I love Bukowski’s writings because of his brutal honesty in his writings.  When asked, “Is not your writing a bit personal?”  He responded,  “It is all personal!”
 
Subjects he wrote about:  alcoholism,  sex addiction, solitude,  triggers,  craziness, happiness,  animals, pets, boring people,  broken hearts, ambition,  the struggle in finding true self, drudgery of work, love of drinking, life being cruel, the rich screwing the poor, people being at fault for democracy not working,  and faith in young people for future generations.
 
Dr. Harry Harlow use to experiments on small Reese Monkeys,  taking babies and letting them choose a mother made of chicken wire with a bottle of milk, or the mother with no milk bottle, but made of shag carpeting. The babies always choose love of the softness and warmth over the filling of the belly with milk.  He used science to show we all need love.  The heartbreak of the experiments, is the monkeys who never had the love of their true monkey mothers, ended up becoming dysfunctional, and ACUTALLY DIED from lack of love.  How many in the race called human suffer so grievously?  Too many.
 
If one had no idea on Bukowski’s biography,  it would be easy to write him off as a person who did not need love,  but in two of my favorite poems,  BLUE BIRD, and MACHO HELL,  he talks about love for himself that he keeps on the down low, and love he has actually had for others in his life.