...Buk’s Bartender...

I would like to have 

been Bukowski’s bartender. 

I would like to have 

been the bartender who 

perpetually pissed him off 

by putting paper umbrellas 

in his beer. 

 

Yea, I’d do little things 

to constantly remind him that it 

wasn’t the human race in general 

   which sucked, 

but rather in truth, 

   specific assholes. 

 

I’d go on a rant with 

all the other customers about 

the repulsive appearance of 

extreme epidermal acne. 

Yea, he knew about that. 

 

I’d tell “dead cat” jokes. 

I’d inform him that I 

knew his dad personally, 

and that in my opinion, 

he was an okay joe. 

 

I’d be the first to spout, 

“Hey Hank! 

Don’t you think you’ve had 

one too many?” 

 

And when he got rowdy, 

I’d thump the edge of the bar 

with a chopped down baseball bat. 

 

I’d have made his life miserable, 

but hey, you know what? 

He’d have kept coming back. 

 

And why? 

 

Because it was all poetry. 

Yes, poetry. 

I’d have given him a reason. 

Mutual disenchantment 

would have been our 

joint existential goal. 

 

I’d have been his muse of pain… 

that is, except for there 

at the very end.

 

Yea, I would like to have 

given Charles Bukowski 

his final beer. 

 

That I would have done 

with a smile. 

 

Ó04 Jack David Hubbell