This
morning I’m listening to the piano musings of
Franz
Liszt while I read the embittered poetry of
Charles
Bukowski.
(I
can ingest his rancorous ramblings easier that way.)
Old
Bukowski was a tortured person throughout his
73-years
here on Earth.
One
may ask, why then would I read his work in order
to
inspire mine?
Well,
his poetry was neither academic nor esoteric.
There
were no slick or hidden meanings in his work.
He
spoke quite literally to the common man I consider
myself
to be.
Had
we met in life, though, I’d have to say more than
likely
we would not have been friends.
That
is, had I been living the sober life I do now.
As
drunks, however, we would have surely come
to
some serious blows.
And
then, I’ll drink to that. Let’s let bygones be bygones
(that
is until our next explosive drunken episode).
Now,
I could imagine being closer to Liszt
had
we shared the same time historically.
Had
we drank together we may have sensibly agreed
to
disagree.
If
not, I could just tell him to shut up and play the
damn
piano, man!
You
sure don’t want to mess up those precious knuckles
of
yours punching me in the face.
-30-
Chris
Hanch 6-30-2020
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