Gravel and Drunks, Glitter and Doom

I can't say I'm a huge fan of Charles Bukowski. Can't even really say I'm a fan of his work, for the most part.

He's the kind of writer you're supposed to either love or hate, and your reaction to him is supposed to say something about you. He's kind of like Tom Waits that way - you're either a full-on superfan who owns the soundtrack to "One from the Heart" on vinyl or you're a tender-eared pantywaist whining, "But his voice is just so.... scratchy!"

I've never felt passionately about Waits or Bukowski as far as their personas go. In the interests of full disclosure I will admit I loved Waits as Renfield in "Bram Stoker's Dracula" and hated Mickey Rourke as Bukowski in "Barfly." I can't say that most of what they put out makes me perk my ears up either to praise or damn.

But each of them has some fantastic work lying amid the middling stuff.

They've got some pieces that just grab you and don't let you go. Some of it works you over like a grizzled wino who grabs you by the collar and shakes you within an inch of your life and you didn't think the old guy had enough strength to get off the barstool.

For Tom Waits one of those pieces is his album "Mule Variations" and for Charles Bukowski it's this.

we must

Charles Bukowski

we must bring
our own light
to the
darkness.

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

as the young boys
ski
down the
slopes

as the fry cook
gets his last
paycheck

as dog chases
dog

as the chessmaster
loses more than
the game

we must bring
our own light
to the
darkness.

nobody is going
to do it
for us,

as the lonely
telephone
anybody
anywhere

as the great beast
trembles
in nightmare

as the final season
leaps into
focus

nobody is going
to do it
for us.