An actor I knew used to see Charles Bukowski,
early 70's, stumbling through the downtown streets of L.A.
muttering to himself.
I don't recall if he said he had a paper bag, but
Let's give him the bag.
So there he is,
blinding midday L.A. sun,
over the uneven sidewalks
as another artist, the actor, watches
from some safe window.
Bukowski's speech is staccatoed
by the drunken emphasis he gives
the least appropriate words.
And he is assaulting the language,
make a verbal disgrace
of everything everyone's ever stood for
as his rant continues.
The actor, who admires the incoherent
brilliance of self destruction,
decides to inhabit his darkness.