Charles Bukowski




the passing of a great one

he was the only living writer I ever met who I truly
admired and he was dying when I met
him.
(we in this game are shy on praise even toward
those who do it very well, but I never had this 
problem with J.F.)
I visited him several times at the
hospital (there was never anybody else
about) and upon entering his room
I was never sure if he was asleep
or?

“John?”

he was stretched there on that bed, blind
and amputated:
advanced
diabetes.

“John, its
Hank…”

he would answer and then we would talk for
a short bit (mostly he would talk and I would
listen; after all, he was our mentor, our
god):

Ask the Dust
Wait until Spring, Bandini
Dago Red

all the others.

to end up in Hollywood writing
movie scripts
that’s what killed
him.

“the worst thing,” he told me.
“is bitterness, people end up so
bitter.”

he wasn’t bitter, although he had
every right to
be…

at the funeral I
met several of his script-writing
buddies.

“let’s write something about
John,” one of them
suggested.

“I don’t think I can,: I
told them.

and, of course, they never
did.