drinking buddies

Tonight, Bukowski and I drink together.

He tells me about the time

nobody believed he was Ginsberg

and he got his ass pounded into the pavement by a fat man.

The whole time I think My Christ, what a life.

Beautiful in ragged simplicity, his formula to existence:

drinking

working

struggling

fighting

and always writing

that froth of words that poured from him

fast with the typewriter

but faster with the computer

and always there no matter what

and there they'd be, beautiful.

But then Bukowski looks up from his story to say

it's in you, baby

right in your soul.

Everybody's gotta start somewhere

sometimes it's slow

sometimes you get your shit wrecked

tossed out on the street

depressed

exhausted

drunk

fired

lonely

old in your heart

but as long as you're going, that's what matters.

You can do it, baby, he says.

Just let it happen, and it will.

It always does.

Bukowski sips his beer

belches

then carries on about the time when his landlady

brought him a phonograph to mute his mind

like he'd never said anything at all.