My Piano Is Dirty

If you aren’t a writer; or a reader; if you aren’t interested in the raw, gritty, blue-collar scribbles on a wine-stained cocktail napkin, then you probably haven’t heard of Charles Bukowski. Many a literati have denounced Bukowski, treating his writing, his poetry, short stories and novels, as nothing more than glitches in good taste by bad publishers.

But we know better. Some of us know things that the elite of academia do not. We appreciate, we love it, when the artist bites those who stand to make him famous. Charles Bukowski found his audience despite academia’s lackluster embrace, and for me that makes him all the sweeter. Factotum is a new movie based on one of his books.

Bukowski’s writing is not for the weak. His words are strong. His actions are raw and animalistic. He drinks, he fornicates, and curses, he fails, he hits, he cries, he hates, and he drinks some more. Neither the author, nor his subjects are likeable. He is what he is and he writes his life and for that I am happy. Because Bukowski tells me the truth, his truth, his wretched, gutter-filled, truth.

My fellow writer friends from college, with whom I am still dedicated friends, introduced me to Bukowski. I am thankful to them for that act of vile kindness. If you read even a little Bukowksi, you will understand that statement. Periodically, I will pick up my Bukowski book and turn to page 101 and read one of my favorite Bukowski poems. I will read about Chopin and I am reminded about writing and my duties of writing to myself. I remember that not everything I create is good, but it is mine. And frankly you poor sons-a-bitches, it’s better than yours, and you know it. That Bukowkski just brings out the worst in me. Enjoy this entry from page 101.

"CHOPIN BUKOWSKI"
By Charles Bukowski
From his book, Love is a Dog From Hell


this is my piano.

the phone rings and people ask,
what are you doing? how about
getting drunk with us?

and I say,
I’m at my piano.

what?

I’m at my piano.

I hang up.

people need me. I fill
them. if they can’t see me
for a while they get desperate, they get
sick.

But if I see them too often
I get sick. it’s hard to feed
without getting fed.

my piano says things back to
me.

sometimes the things are
scrambled and not very good.
other times
I get as good and lucky as
Chopin.

sometimes I get out of practice
out of tune. that’s
all right.

I can sit down and vomit on the
keys
but it’s my
vomit.

it’s better than sitting in a room
with 3 or 4 people and
their pianos.

this is my piano
and it is better than theirs.

and they like it and they do not
like it.