A Six Sentence Beer With Bukowski


It was three in the afternoon and we were the only two in the Frolic Room on Hollywood Boulevard. I sat two stools down from him and studied his face in the back bar mirror through the bottles of tequila and whiskey. He nodded toward the mirror, held up a High-Life, downed it in one Chianski gulp , slammed it down and said, Another.

I whispered to the bartender, who looked like every other actor waiting to be discovered,
tell him I’m a poet.
Bukowski emptied another one, tapped it twice and went to the john. I leaned in,

What’d he say?
The bartender stood polishing wet rings on the bar and sounding like Cagney,

He said Who the hell ain’t?

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2 Responses to A Six Sentence Beer With Bukowski

  1. paisley says:

    you are so amazingly in his head…

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