Bukowski hated pretentiousness,
and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
To me, "Buk" was Woody Allen on "roids".
Bukowski loved midgets and runaway trains...
racetracks and whores,
getting drunk and sleeping in parks,
brawling with bartenders,
and other like-kind sports.
Once upon a time, he loved Hemingway,
but then he grew up and realized that he wrote better shit.
Hank, Chinaski, Buk, AKA Charles Bukowski never minced words.
He was as happy in one ratty room, as in a palatial mansion.
All he needed was some cheap rock-gut and a fifty cent cigar.
He hated Hollywood phonies, corporates, bosses of any kind,
authority figures, tax men, and guys with pipes.
He puked in a bucket at Ivy League Universities,
where he was handsomely paid for his appearances.
Buk hated ivory tower academics and what they wrote.
Truly, he stayed faithful to his "outsiderness".
Chinaski could smell bullshit, a mile away.
He loved his old "typer".
He was the best of us.
He was the worst of us.
He aspired to nothing.
Yet, his written words hit me in the guts, and in my heart.
Old Hank was the real deal.