Continental Drift

The north by northwest passage of Matt Asprey, and his nod to Hemingway in the quote about displaced writing ["maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan"] reminds me that when writing for others, we benefit from distance from…ourselves. It is not only the act of [...]

Mr. Bukowski and the French Journalist Go To Starbucks

“In your new collection of poetry from Black Raven Press, Kill All the Monkeys and Tell Me When the Circus Leaves Town,” the French journalist said, staring at her notes in a pale green steno notebook, “you poke fun once again at the nouveau riche in Los Angeles who think that they are cultured because [...]

Bukowski’s Cricket

“You know, Bukowski, I don’t mind throwing away the empty beer cans in the morning,” said Maxine, “the ones that you leave on the kitchen counter, the ones in the bathroom and the bedroom.” “Good,” Bukowski mumbled, tearing through the newspaper to get to the racing form. “That’s why I keep you around, baby.” Maxine topped [...]

Bukowski and the Red Socks

One morning in May of 1992 when the sinus-burning scent of smoke from the Molotov-cocktail-induced fires of the Rodney King riots still clung like a vise over East Hollywood, Bukowski awoke fitfully in his gray-striped soiled mattress, hungover and with a head throbbing like a kettle drum beaten by a cretin with no sense of [...]

Bukowski and the Weather Report

“Hot and sunny with a chance of smoke?” Bukowski pried his eyes away from the black-and-white Norelco and the smiling chipmunk face of the toothsome weather girl on Action News at Five. “What the hell kind of forecast is that?” Maxine clawed at an extra-large bag of Lays’s potato chips resting between her meaty thighs [...]