Well then, what shall I speak of? My mind is a cauldron, a bloody crows nest of this and that. Jeez...I'm a fan of the written word, sometimes the spoken or sung word, definitely a ground dwelling beast. Terra Firma?...is that how it's said.
Come to the whole Buk thing late I guess. Discovered the great beast sometime in my thirties, and was somewhat taken by his outlook, his daily devotional. I knew this guy. I'd sat beside him countless nights, spent a neon Christmas or two cackling at the rail, throwin' 'em back, keepin' the good eye on the door.
A classic American story this Bukowski thing. I'm not sure of many things, but of that, I'll bet the last of the tip.
Jesus Christ! You sound like you might're a poet. Well, perhaps I'm joking a bit and perhaps not. Sounds corny, I know but what the Hell... Anyway, speaking of Buk's art I think there are a certain cathegory of people who can relate to that guy's books as if it's part of their own biography and they're walking this earth every day and damn! they are not happy people at all but at least they are people in the true sense of this word and... All I mean to say is this: if you didn't have a chance to face this beast during those crazy evenings (sounds biblical somehow) then you're not entirely human yet.