by RD Armstrong
I discovered Bukowski while I was attending Mira Costa HS. He had a column in the L.A. Free Press called Notes of a Dirty Old Man which I avidly consumed… loving the quirky tales and the general weirdness of it all. I bought my first book at the old Either/Or Bookstore in Hermosa Beach. In fact, for the next twenty years or so, I faithfully shopped there for Bukowski fare. It was like going to church. I really miss that place, as well as the old man.
The first poem was written during his last year. It’s odd but after being a fan of his for 25 years, my first “fan” letter would be a poem published in Random Lengths (out of San Pedro) — it was the only way I knew how to reach him.
The second poem was written a year after his death; the third poem was written about 5 years later. The last poem (by Bukowski) inspired me to write poetry in the first place.
The Old Dog
When the day comes
when the final bell ends his last
round
when the needle scratches
the last groove
and the last exacta is run
then they can have him.
When the last
sleepless night is over
when the last drop of wine is drained
when the last hangover fades
then it won’t matter where he’s gone.
But until that time
let him raise a palsied paw
to the sky
and howl at the moon for all he’s worth.
So what if the swaggering blowhard
has been replaced by a staggering old pup.
Leave him alone and he’ll still amaze
us
with that
one
last
perfect
gesture.
Last Stop
The old guy sat at the table
with his wife
his back faced the room
a tuft of very white hair stood
on his head like a cloud
hovering close
over San Joaquin
farmland.
The old guy was about as big around
as a minute
his clothes hung loosely on his frame.
He was doing his best to fill them
with what was left.
The old guy’s wife smiled
and spoke to him in a low voice
inaudible to the rest of the room
her eyes twinkled
as he worked on a piece of cake
and sipped a cappuccino
his hands trembling.
As they left
she balanced his frail frame
against her own
he was going as fast as he could
and soon he would be gone
altogether.
Bungalows on De Longpre
The bungalows on De Longpre
do not sing a happy tune
do not stand out like a vase of
happy yellow flowers w/
brown faces and radiant petals
The bungalows on De Longpre —
a skidmark off of Normandie
in the cracked stucco jungle
of east Hollywood
Walls stained w/ the rust
of lorca’s tears, of grieving widows
at the gates of paramount studios
standing at the intersection of the
avenida de los lost souls and the parque
of the disappeared w/ crumpled renderings
of lost familia pleading w/ red eyes and
tear-stained cheeks for hope or charity
The bungalows on De Longpre
do not speak a known language but
mumble in a dialect inaudible except to dogs:
sounds like bones being slowly crushed
by a large stone wheel
crunch crunch crunch
The bungalows on De Longpre
looking tedious and unrepentant
on a Saturday afternoon in humorless sunshine
standing like monuments to the War All The
Time of 1966 Los Angeles and the sweet
miracle of words ratcheted loose
from the yawning mouth of death
and nailed to the page by the clackity-clack
of a drunken two o’clock in the morning typewriter.
RD Armstrong
The Bukowski Poem that got me going…
Style
Style is the answer to everything-
A fresh way to approach a dull or a
dangerous thing.
To do a dull thing with style
is preferable to doing a dangerous thing
without it.
Joan of arc had style
John the Baptist
Christ
Socrates
