Don't Try

Charles "Hank/Buk" Bukowski was the toughest motherfucker to ever live. I am the second. Like him, I have survived:

Dysfunctional parents, horrid boils, playground bullies, ulcers, insanity, insane women, squalid houses, fights in allies and barroom brawls, cat fights with girlfriends, a nagging case of hemorrhoids, cheap rooms, alley rats, jail, the draft, politically correct poetry and fiction editors, Chicago freeways, mad friends, poets musicians and writers befriended, ghetto mobsters, humanity, cops, jail, groupies, scars, rejection slips, Canada, silverfish, cheap booze, more jail, barflys, Washington DC freeways, park benches, bad running cars, decades of mind-numbing jobs, stupid ass and dull-headed co-workers, at least five grad schools, New Orleans whores, and all that other shit that kills ordinary, run-of-the-mill humans.

Yeah, so today is my international Bukowski day for one, writing and drinking and laying out from work and just generally not giving a solitary damn.

RIP, Buk.