Henry Chinaski is dead.
my world turned ass over when I hear the news.
rooming house man whose come will spread no more.
only death renders Buk incapable of erections, ejaculations,
exhibitions, and tales of ordinary madness.

heir of John Fante.
more bard of the barroom than barfly.
translator of Los Angeles skid row.
fucker of rhymes and visionary poetry
in favor of bleakness and truth.

major figure in European literary circles
horseplayer outside the winner’s circle of American literati
until the average American he gives meaning to
tries to make him an cultural icon.

Bukowski refuses to let celebrity devour him like Ginsberg.
stale middle-American air
the sailboats of San Pedro
Madonna’s Hollywood
do not make him soft.
living hard on the street makes him fear life not death.

I pay homage to the great one by donating money
for a toilet stall inscription in the women’s john at my college
“To the underground poet Charles Bukowski who discovered more uses for
toilets in American bars than Thomas Crapper could have ever hoped for.”

A fitting tribute to Buk, who even in death
can be near young snatch.
the college president says the inscription is unfit for the academic world
as if his fear of the uncommon is fit for any world.

Hell-Nixon got a twenty-one gun salute.
why can’t Hank rest in peace in the women’s shitter?