It was a weekday but back then they all blurred
and I went downtown because that was easier
than going up the hill, and I went into the bookstore
that I’d just discovered, because it was one of the
greatest things on earth. (And it still is).

That’s where I found it. Run With The Hunted.
A Charles Bukowski Reader. I had only read one
of his poems until I found that book. But that one
poem made its mark. And the story was intriguing.
I had to know more. I bought the book and took it

home and sat on my bed listening to Neil Young and
Throwing Muses and Tricky and Bjork and Wayne
Shorter too. And when I wasn’t changing CDs I had
that book in my hand. Some 400 pages. Turning and
turning. Then turning it over in my mind.

Horror stories. This drunken fool. And I loved it
then. And I think I loved him too – or at least a little
bit of him. (Loved what he was about). The way that
in and around all that madness and the noise of
drunken nights and the next day’s gloom there’d be

a tiny, often broken, piece of humanity. Something so
heartening as to feel brand new. He had his way with
the line, the word, he put down the world in his language
and on his terms. He took that afternoon from me and
I loved that he did. Each page more exciting than the next.

He’s taken several days off me since – although not so
many lately. Sometimes you grow up and through things
and you don’t need them anymore. It doesn’t mean you
don’t love what they were about or won’t ever acknowledge
them. But they go back on the shelf. For the next in line.