Charles Bukowski books are fun to read. Not fun in a way a comic book is fun, but fun in a way that you can read them in a few days and you feel like you accomplished something. They are easy, simple, and not a whole lot happens. They tell tales of the outcasts, the fuck-ups, the lonely. I have ultimately enjoyed and been disgusted by everything I have read of his. I feel bad for the protagonists as I imagine a dirty dishes in a sink, stained mattresses, and dingy apartments.
Usually when someone asks me what I thought of a Bukowski book I will answer with something like, “Oh it was gross, but really funny and good.” This is a poem by him that I find startlingly beautiful. So startling possibly because I am used to a general sense of ugliness from him.But ultimately I cannot put a finger on why it’s so beautiful to me but it is. Happy birthday Charles Bukowski.
