Sunset and Vine

 

Strawberry Fields (Diptych) 30 x 80 cm- sold

CHARLES BUKOWSKI MEMORIAL POEM

Shuffling across a cobbled courtyard in Baden-Baden,

a blanket draped over his bony, raised-to-the-ears

shoulders

by a Pre-Raphaelite angel named Steff—

merciful seraph—

a man always in slow-motion collapse,

shit-faced every day of his life yet able to focus

on his confession, philosophy, writerly addiction.

He was becoming who he was all the time.

That’s why he drank. A reason to celebrate.

An ode to order.

& writing was merely drinking

out of the ribbon and tap-tap of a Smith Corona.

Scribbling in the Valley for pennies on the dollar,

his share disbursed to liquor stores & sex-workers

where Hollywood Boulevard closes in on Vine

then misses it by a dog’s hair; this is

where our quest runs out of gas,” baby.”

Take note of skid marks, sprinkle of broken glass.

“It ain’t my accident. I just caused it.”

To wrap things up, a final word from our honored guest:

“It could be worse,” he croaks, guttural as a clogged drain,

popping open a can of brew—I never saw

him uglier or more persuasive—“we could run out of beer.”