Reflection on the rise and fall and death of the American poet
It’s getting pretty damn crowded trying to stand in the shadow of the poet Charles Bukowski. It’s like apostles to Christ or worse. Everyone has their own version of who he was–however this time we actually have his original words, and don’t have to rely on the delusions of the mind long after the prophet has died. Don’t get me wrong, there still will be stories told by the devotees, there will be exaggerations and lies, and half truths told and repeated as truth incarnate. So much so that the shadow of Bukowski will grow and expand until that shadow no longer represents the figure who cast it. Luckily we still have his words.
The damnable thing about standing too close to the genius of such a lucky muse is that it is almost impossible not getting lost in this shadow and losing your own style and sense. Such original power is intoxicating and seductive, seducing those close enough and even those at a distance into chanting mindless refrains like Krishna followers banging drums at the airport.
Everyone does want a hero, and Buk is the best anti-hero-hero to come along since Jack Kerouack. So he serves his purpose, gives purpose and meaning to a lot of meaningless lives, who would be lost in the dive bars and dead end jobs of this metropolis on the desert.
He always had the sense to strike his own matches in an otherwise dark and crowded closet of people who couldn’t find a light in a butane refinery.
Now for all those who follow who are trying to squeeze into that same closet, pull the chain on that same dim light and strike those already burnt matches, just don’t even try. But try as they do it’s just not the same as when Bukowski sat alone striking match after match dropping the spent ones on the floor like so many smoked poems.
We’re damn lucky though to have his words and not just others remembering those words. Damn lucky!
— James Preston Allen, 1994