Doing Lunch With Charles

I’ve tried imagining Bukowski
seeing the same scenes I see;
wondering whether he might’ve
found it real enough to want to
write ‘em down. That scared Hell
outta me. But I doubt it. I mean
you have to be mostly sober to
see anything real around here –
as distinct from constructs and
boundaries like where he lived.
I imagine our conversation – he
chivvying me for hiding in trees,
drinking too much to make a
statement, me agreeing. I mean,
what else could you do with him
three quarters inebriated.
© 21 June 2008, I. D. Carswell