The Poet Laureate of the common man. His current publications, scheduled readings, daily dalliances, links to his books and whatever seemingly clever thought Bee wants to share
There may be crumbs in the bed, but I’m the one that made the sandwich and ate it there. The sheets might be foul and wrinkly, but I’m the one that soiled and failed to properly press them.
There’s something sad and sobering about it all. the various vendors pulling down the tarps and poles of the peanut and hotdog stands. The marathon bicycling man sitting and watering down.
Puritan and wanton, waiting on a station that won’t come in, tuning and amusing, cruising out of control, prenatal fatal femme fatale playing second fiddle for the house band and cheating on her husband with the last man standing in the shallows of the sea, and that old man is me and I just returned from an odyssey after ten years or more of war.
So that is how it goes, we bruise easily and forgive poorly. We spend hours and dollars frivolously, then feverishly hustle for income. Isn’t our paradigm funny?
What happens when a thirty year old male propels semi-famous novelist and poet, Charles Bukowski, a low-life alcoholic, to sainthood via a private sanctification and begins to follow his advice in an absurd homage to a WWJD moral imperative? You get this particular character with one hell of a life coach. He is a careless high school teacher, opportunistic womanizer, unabashed alcoholic and unaccomplished stoner. A man-child that is craving personal, spiritual, and professional change as he dances around the idea of confronting his various demons. What will it take to get this man out of this despondent deep end where dreams come to die? Love, “rock bottom”, music, pot, booze, hedonism, heroism, some new –ism, he’ll try just about anything. This story is the personal account of one strange and pivotal week in this odd and normal man’s life. It’s about the songs that inspire and influence—the very motivation for our being, the conscious and unconscious decisions we make, and what defines our identity. Since that is all a bit too much, think of it this way: it’s a story about a silly drunk teacher that gets a bunch of ass, smokes a ton of grass, might have played a role in a murder, and is searching for love won and lost, and answers in the future and past.
I do wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger. But moreover, I wish I could have myself a do over, a redo, a try again, restart, continuation from just after adolescence. All the wisdom I’ve gained in the form of scars, tragedy, regrets, failures, successes, and trials and tribulations.
“You alright buddy? You look like your nut sac was just deflated,” Gus sounds off his heartfelt concern.
going to the pharmacy and over hearing the person in front of me asking for some Plan B also known as marriage material
I’ll help her erase me from her memory,
That’s what being a jackass and the douche bag tendency has been about,
It hasn’t been about me and my selfishness, it’s a roundabout route to altruism.
I’m just really caring or at least forethoughless to the fullest on purpose, for a greater good.
The awful drunkenness, thievery and petty assaults I’ll make her witness are simply insurance,
It’s best not to leave anything to chance when it comes to self defeatism.
(and then it continues for a few more stanzas.)