Hank had chops

for a long time it was only
Hemingway for me-
just the pure straightforward,
the direct
the clear imagery.
then I found McCarthy
and couldn't believe what I
was reading.
I loved Kerouac.
I loved Ginsberg.
Whitman drew a fantastic
poem.
Socrates laid it down.
Becket took no prisoners.
Hesse was astonishing.
Sartre didn't pull punches.
And Kafka was shock and beauty.
but then I found Bukowski.
I was 23, living on my own, and had
nothing. Bukowski had had nothing,
came from nothing, belonged to nothing.
rediscovering Hank in my thirties when
I still had nothing, knowing he came from nothing
and had nothing meant everything. I also had
everything through this upsidedown nothing.
through nothing, for nothing; a negative times
a negative
equals a
positive.
as the years pass and I grow, so does Buk.
he remains raw, determined, unrestricted,
continuous, and courageous. his work
stands upright.
and his words have become a part of me ...
a very vulgar, dirty, shined, and beautiful heartfelt
part of me.
                   amen.