Liberat.es
MOD Pizza Wish Me Luck - #NaPoWriMo22 Day 12
When I think of the
poetry of Charles Bukowski,
I always picture him
reading, writing, and, well,
drinking in the shadows of
a dive bar somewhere in
Los Angeles. It’s one of
those bars that stands alone.
Perhaps the building on one
side of it burnt down
years ago. The other side?
A fenced off abandoned
lot. It’s that kind
of place where a couple
of strangers are huddled in the
dark doorway sharing a
smoke. The jukebox is
broken, and the bartender
couldn’t possibly care about
your troubles. But I never,
and I mean never, have
imagined Bukowski pulling
up in his old jalopy into
the parking lot of a busy
stripmall in the suburbs. A
stripmall that contains—
inexplicably—well, a
dive bar. Where the people
sharing a smoke aren’t
huddled in the dark. Rather
they stand on a sidewalk
shared by a Starbucks
(on one side) and a T-Moble
on the other. Something
tells me that it’s
not the kind of place
that could produce some
of the most misogynistic
poetry possible. That’s
gotta be a good thing.