I was browsing books at our local Goodwill store on Saturday, and there, nestled among all the copies of “What to Expect…” and “Tax tips for the 1990s,” was a copy of Charles Bukowski’s “Love is a dog from Hell.” I brought it home and started reading. Bukowski can feel like the long-lost uncle you don’t really know if you want to invite to the family reunion. He is hilarious and profane, self-centered and offensive, completely unapologetic for who he is. He just seems to tell it like he sees it. And in compelling style – at least to me. After an hour with “Love is a dog from Hell” I wrote this response. (To share with friends at dVerse Poets Pub).
A dog from hell
He’s at it again,
chasing cockroaches across
the bathroom floor with
an ironic stream of piss
some nameless hooker
is lighting up in the bedroom
crouched on the headboard
and shouting at the television
he says he likes the ones
with personality, but I can’t
help noticing he chooses
the ones with big tits
he loves to tell about it while the
booze is flowing and the telephone rings
and he just ignores it all,
cave-painting in skeletal lines
and I hate him – the misogynistic asshole –
hate him because I am so damn jealous
of that clear, unapologetic voice.
No, I am not bored, Mr. Bukowski.