Remembering The Buk

(Beat poet Al Winans posted a photo of Charles Bukowski on Facebook, with an amazing letter from the Buk for Al’s 50th birthday. I liked the letter (see below) which shed some light on his bad behavior, and with that, came understanding. But so much faux idolatry emanated from that post it made me gag as my reaction to meeting Bukowski was decidedly different. So I posted my own not-so-pretty two-cents-worth. And, thanks for the unexpected writing prompt, Al!)

I met Charles Bukowski around 1982, when he was crashing on a friend’s sagging couch in a farmhouse perched by the railroad tracks in Cotati. My friend wanted me to meet him to organize a reading at Sonoma State. So, Becca (Rebecca Clintron Osvald) took me over to her friend Ricky Appelbaum’s old white farmhouse over by the trailer court to meet the Buk.

Ricky‘s house was a crash pad for thespians, artists, and wandering poets. The rent was dirt cheap. Every time a freight train rumbled by, the house shook, we’d all scream Stella! like Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire, because Ricky was playing the lead at a local theater. 

Unfortunately, Charles Bukowski was dead drunk by early afternoon, nursing a gallon of cheap Red Mountain wine. He had been at it for a while as empty wine jugs circled the perimeter of the couch. The Buk was also in audition-mode on Ricky’s chintzy couch, already in training for his semi-autobiographical screenplay, Barfly. 

I guess by that point, the Buk had already thoroughly burned his bridges with his sole poetry publisher, my friend, John Martin of Black Sparrow Press, who wouldn’t let him crash at his place up in Healdsburg anymore. John, who had founded a successful office supply business in LA, hunted Bukowski down in 1966, and found him working as a letter clerk in a post office. 

In 1969, John sold his collection of DH Lawrence first editions to fund his Black Sparrow Press. And then he made an offer that Bukowski couldn’t refuse, $100 a month to write full time. A month later, Bukowski submitted his first novel, Post Office. John made Bukowski famous again—as a poet—after he had burnt his literary bridges as a writer with a 35-year-long drunken binge which led to a hiatus from the publishing world. 

Bukowski‘s myriad poetry books put the fledgling Black Sparrow Press on the literary roadmap. John, whose first words when he finally met Bukowski, were, “I worship you,” Buk’s reply was “That’s nice, you wanna beer?” But this time John was done with the Buk. (Note to self, need to find Barnes & Noble PR on John.)

I introduced myself. The grizzled, greasy-haired poet, enveloped in a thick grey cowl of cigarette smoke, didn’t even get up off the couch, but he grabbed my proffered hand, said something rather nasal, and then tried to drag me down to his level on the couch. 

Because I was living out of my car, I was rather formally dressed for the times, kitted out in a retro 1940s long teal pencil skirt, and my Irish grandmother’s peach-colored lace insert crepe silk blouse with a maroon leotard beneath. So you couldn’t exactly blame my demure wardrobe for his dirty old man social malfunction. 

I fought like a banshee, red lacquered claws extended, and I had some pithy words to say. I hissed like a car, escaped unscathed, but I was so furious, I was shaking. He was so lecherous that he literally had me puking, Though I was attractive, men rarely hit on me. Ricky used to call me the China doll because I was so pale and wan. It was my anorexic phase (I’d lost a lot of blood from an abortion), so I was fey, not quite of this world.

To be fair, Bukowski tried to call me back after my dramatic rebuke, quite possibly to apologize, but I was gone. I remember running out of the house, and throwing up in the rosebushes, tripping over an orange tomcat desperately weaving around my ankles. all I could think of was handcuffs. I sped off in my old rustbucket of a VW bug, a trail of gravel spluttering behind me. I never talked Charles Bukowski again.

I never could read Bukowski’s work after that. I was running a poetry series at Sonoma State. Ironically, all he wanted was a reading, but he thoroughly burned his bridges with me. Having growing up with far too many alcoholics in the family, I had zero tolerance or coping skills for that kind of behavior. You might say my judgment was colored by the deep well of the alcohol school. 

I ran into Bukowski later in 1984, he was celebrating the sale of his screenplay to Hollywood at the Inn of the Beginning in Cotati. It was drinks all around the house. A deep well at the bar. Needless to say, I gave him a wide berth. He never saw me leaving.

Years later, in an Amsterdam bookshop, circa 1992, I discovered I liked his work. He was wildly popular in Europe. People were amazed that I was probably the only person that ever refused to give the infamous Charles Bukowski a poetry reading. Sure, on some level I regret it. It would’ve been a booking coup. But between The Buk and Gene Ruggles, I was so fed up with the bad behavior of macho male alcoholic poets with flagging egos, I didn’t want to babysit them.

I did produce a couple of disastrous readings for Gene. Unfortunately, he was alway falling down drunk. I was humiliated and horrified. I had known Gene since I was a child, he was a friend of my mother’s, so I couldn’t say no. Only two people would call me up at 3 AM for crazy drunken phone calls in the middle of the night: Gene and my mom. I guess it was a good thing that the Buk did not have my phone number.

AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

I don’t know why I’m charmed by that synthetic borderline 

between this day and the next, a fixed point on the clock, 

on the calendar, an arbitrary measuring of time. 

We take it for granted, and it exists within our minds, 

but not in the minds of all those other beings. 

Does the cat care for the stroke of midnight? 

No, it only cares for the staccato of kibble in the bowl. 

Fairytales began at midnight. Cinderella, for example. 

And in Brittany, one night a year, the old rocks at the River Ys 

come down to the banks at midnight to slake their thirst. 

I remember how we waited for Midnight Mass to end 

so that we could feast on ham, and unwrap our presents. 

It was a witching hour that lasted until dawn, 

the bird chorus echoing our own arias as we waded 

through the flotsam of tinseled madness.

And at the stroke of midnight, India became a nation, 

shaking off neo-colonial shackles, slaking its thirst for freedom. 

My grandfather, an Irish gunrunner who also sent arms to India, 

invited to the midnight gala where they danced beneath jeweled stars 

in New Delhi & San Francisco until dawn sent them all to bed.

Then the real work began, building a nation out of hope.

It was a time between times where anything was possible.

At the Exploratorium, I was mesmerized by greeny mirrors

endlessly gazing into each other’s sublime faces, 

reflecting themselves and their endless visages, 

where suspended time traveled at the speed of light.

7/26/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

THE SONG OF BARBED WIRE

The song of barbed wire, strung taut on old posts, 

the way my grandfather labored on the steep hillside, 

the horizon distracting him as he wiped sweat from his brow.

Already the siren call of the deep valley below the mountain

will lead his children astray, the long arm of the known world 

promising so much and yet offering little in return.

A torrent of syllables and fragments slipping over rocks 

among the old bones, in the creekbed in deep summer. 

The body’s doubt, and the knowledge of regret holding us back. 

7/19/23

STAND UP COMEDIAN

It is curious how memory is embedded 

in things ordinary, how it arises like a dust storm

as you unravel the past, packing up for yet another move. 

An old sequined dress in the back of the closet 

promised much more than it delivered. 

Yet you kept it anyway. For no real reason. 

At least it still fits, so much for small victories.

And remember your grandmother’s old fur coat, 

someone said pony hair so you never wore it again. 

You heard the hooves following you in dreams.

Then there’s curious sensation when memory 

coalesces like blood as you relive a day in the life of… 

The unanswerable: why did that particular moment arise? 

And where did all that sequestered time go anyway? 

Especially those moments when you weren’t paying 

attention and forgot about the grind of dailiness. 

The box of broken earrings stashed under the bed

is whispering again of the not-so-good good old days. 

You know, those inconsequential moments, 

surfacing like a gateway drug in need of a fix. 

None of it is real. Curious how we define ourselves 

with detritus of the past. So much treasured junk.

You’d think by now, we’d know better. 

Memory is a standup comedian: 

part paper, part animal, part rock 

as you snip snip snip away at the past, 

trimming the split ends with dull nail scissors, 

the hinge protesting the conversion 

with a song of rust and regret. 

I want to say to my younger self, regret not the past 

because it is all but a trick of memory. 

Think of it as a jigsaw puzzle made of clouds

with pieces missing.

7/19/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

Moonstones

I still have some moon-snails, still looking for my moonstones.

When I was young and foolish, I once hiked out to Arch Rock, or was it Double Point, I don’t remember which, I was hiking south along the deserted shore below Alamere Falls, when I came to a rocky outcrop and I couldn’t get to the other side. So I climbed up it and there was a big sinkhole down to the beach, and the arch looking out to sea—Double Point, I assumed. There are several arches along that part of the seashore. 

So I jumped down into the sinkhole to the beach below and went out the second arch and continued on exploring the isolated southern strand. Moonstones and moon shells galore. A treasure trove. By the time I returned at sunset, the tide was coming in and time was running out. What I hadn’t planned on, was the problem of climbing back up out of the concave walls of hole. For a while there I thought I was a goner.

Luckily when I jumped up I could just reach the lip overhang of the sinkhole with my hands, I held on for dear life, but I was sweating it trying to gain purchase on the eroded, not to mention slippery, concave walls of that sinkhole. A vertical wall would’ve been a piece of cake. I hadn’t counted on the curved walls. 

I utilized all my gymnastic moves and rock climbing skills, with a lot of adrenaline—which helped. I pulled myself up via a chin-up and hoisted an elbow over the edge. Victory. But getting my much heavier legs up to rim level without anything to use as leverage was much harder. As I flailed my legs, I thought for sure I was a goner. 

And yes, I was a little more than a teenager, so I guess we could blame my prefrontal lobes. Luckily, I had massive upper body strength, and I didn’t weigh very much. I pretended the cave lip was a horse, and eventually got a leg up and wriggled myself to the top. I was more than a bit shaken. I lay facedown on the rock counting my lucky stars. 

I remember the utter thrill of jumping down from the cliff into the sand. I felt like an intrepid explorer on an adventure. I never once thought about my personal safety. I’m sure there were moonstones in the sand egging me on as I was collecting them at the time. I felt invincible, it was a real Robinson Crusoe moment. Until I had to return the same way I came. Oops! Then, the long hike back along the Palomarin Trail to Highway One in the dusk.

THE ANTHROPOCENE AGE

THE ANTHROPOCENE AGE

So much language is lost in the labyrinth of the throat. 

The face you see in sleep, iridescent in the air 

like the memoirs of ghosts at a banquet, 

recording the remembered past. But your face 

is a map of sorrow packed in a carry-on suitcase. 

Did the mouth lead you too far astray? 

We are all drinking from the same ancestral river, 

dissipating the dream, waiting to be named. 

The indigenous women of the desert held stones 

at the back of the throat to belay their thirst. 

The poetry of negligence lays down its burden at the gates 

of the old cathedral, prays for divine intercession. 

I swallowed small stones and tried to hide 

the obligatory ephemera of my mind from everyone. 

Who shattered the 4th wall, a 2-way mirror staring into the sun?

What is riding whitewater on the river of memory? 

What about the storyline, the cast of characters? 

Who will be last one standing with one foot in the void? 

The clock is hungry but the numbers of darkness 

are always too late to see the the precipice or the void.

We are counting down the days and the nights 

marching towards the harvest of death. 

Solar flares reach into the darkness 

disabling all the motherboards. The alpha 

and the omega of the Anthropocene Age. 

7/12/23 Write On! with Susie Terence (take two).

Unanswerable questions inspired by Michael Torres’ poem, Writing Prompt

What if I were stuck in space, at the point of no return, would the urge to write even be an issue? Who would I write for, and why, especially if the forest inside already caught fire long ago, and all that was left were the charred stumps of the past? Being above the clouds like this, watching those lightning strikes from space is like witnessing a coronation of the petty gods. Then what? My hands, like the lost wings of birds, orchestrate the music of the spheres. The river of regret is filled with starlight singing of celestial events. But I am not an astronaut stuck in space. That thin ribbon of life, all that intense blue leaking into darkness, that is home, the big blue jewel. But in the distance, the impenetrable blackness inside a song, has lost all the notes. Remembrance is an Oort Cloud in the first mind of regret. The great white what if? What comes into focus, stars waiting in the limelight. And what about the gravity and weight of stars circling the brink of a black hole, what about the hunger, what do they regret, do they feel the edge of Occam’s Razor slicing through the sorrow, paying out their light like that in the undertow of experience? Do they perceive themselves as selves as they circle the drain of oblivion, or is that being too specific? Am I being too anthropomorphic? We have entered the Anthropocene Age. What is selfhood when we have changed the course of earth’s destiny? Do we replay those eons of storied light feathering the pages of an old book where the letters escape to their own darkness? And what about the transience of constellations, depending upon one’s point of view? What does Orion look like from the other side of the Andromeda Galaxy anyway? Can you still see his large shoulders carrying the weighted stories of humanity? The sheath of his sword, that singing blade, will it slice through the darkness? They say consciousness is like a river rippling over stones. But the creekbed is tired and wants to sleep.

7/12/23 Write On! with Susie Terence 

I am still not ready to unpack this one. Perhaps never.

Do guinea pigs have souls?

Someone on Facebook asked us to pray for the intersession of their dead guinea pig. My first thought was that I don’t pray for guinea pigs, cats, chihuahuas, or trivial pursuits. I can’t understand people asking for prayers for the daftest things. Part of me is scandalized by the concept, thinking it’s downright sacrilegious. Maybe even a venial sin. But then I find the idea of prayer and intercession ludicrous—especially for pets. Do guinea pigs or pet rabbits even have souls, and what about goldfish who can’t remember anything longer than five seconds? And what about the rainbow bridge? Someone points out that the Bible doesn’t specifically say that animals don’t have souls. I want to counter that interpretive theological dance of anthropomorphism by saying nowhere in the Bible does it say that animals do have souls. Nor is there any mention of the rainbow bridge. Perhaps they don’t know what the concept of immortal soul means in regards to western religion. Or the idea of animals, with no concept of mortal sin, needing salvation and redemption. Do they need to tally up a purgatorial piggy bank of prayer credits in order to be able to go to pet heaven—the rainbow bridge? What is soul vs. spirit? An entity separate from the body. During the Middle Ages, barnyard animals—especially pigs—were hanged from the gallows tree for gluttonous misdeeds. Did their owners eat those condemned felonious animals? Did that make them sin eaters? Then I think of all the barbecued guinea pigs I ate in Peru. Should I have also said grace for their souls? Of course I stay silent, for fear of stepping on anyone’s cosmic toes. But also, I realize that it gives people a tangible form to contain emotions that they otherwise cannot cope with. Perhaps invoking St. Francis would make more sense. And what about that coin for Charon? And of course, then there’s the big taboo to never mention the D word—saying something has passed versus died. I abhor euphemisms. Is it because I am a writer in love with strong nouns and active verbs, not adverbs and adjectives. I want to be able to blurt the word death with impunity, and not be sanctioned for it. I want to scream it from the rooftops, and not let it get expunged from our vocabulary. But I fear it is too late. The parrot died. It didn’t pass. When somebody says so-and-so passed, I think he passed what? The test, the corner, gas? The past? Now there’s an idea. Like Dylan Thomas, I will not go gentle unto that good night. I’m not too sure how the avoidance of the word death began. The beginning of taboo, that which must not be named. The idea of praying for pets, like saying Bless you, is so Deep South. But I can’t help but think it is a curious sociological concept of sanctioned avoidance. I never say anything, but I do acknowledge their grief, usually with the care button. What else can one do? It is horrible to lose a pet we get so attached, but the idea of praying for its intercession seems downright silly. Then I realize I don’t have to accept their bizarre theological constructs, nor do I need to enter their world in order to understand that someone is genuinely grieving for their small, dead pets.

This was from a Facebook comment on Judith Gip’s page that I worked on and expanded instead of doing my Write On prompt for July 5.

Poem forthcoming in Spectrum 36 NOT Don Campbell took down the web page. Gone.

 

OPEN-ENDED POEMS

• Spectrum 36 well, I guess the poem is not forthcoming. After all it is the editor, Dan Campbell took down the blog, so now it is once again unpublished.

July NaHaiWriMo, 30-something haiku

31. Papyrus

30. Pulp

29. Apple

28. Sugarcane

27. Hydrogen

26. Oak

25. Kenaf

24. Wheat

23. Banana

22. Oxygen