I had just been to the dentist whose matronly assistant had cleaned my teeth whiter and brighter than they had ever been,
I was young and so poor that I guess she knew I'd probably not be in for my next appointment for at least another 20 years so she had cleaned them accordingly,
she said she could actually tell by how deeply my teeth had been gouged out for fillings when I was a kid where my dentist had gone to school,
I was pretty impressed by her powers of observation,
even if it had been a backhanded elitist slur,
hey, she had all the tools.
On the way back to my crappy two and a half I decided to duck into a bookstore downtown,
I went straight to the second floor to the poetry section and began leafing through my old favourites, Yeats, and Bishop, and Ginsberg, and Ferlinghetti,
tucked in amongst them all I noticed a book by a poet I'd never read before,
as soon as I opened it and read the first line I was hooked,
I couldn't put it down until I had read it through,
I remember sitting down in a chair and unbuttoning my coat, I probably read every poem two or three times,
I read everything they had by him,
I couldn't believe it, it was as if I had been set free,
he said everything I wanted to hear, and some I didn't,
I was so happy to know that an alcoholic, womanizing bastard could write such great poetry that I couldn't wait to get back home and set to work.
when I got back to my apartment I found that the door had been jimmied and my apartment had been ransacked, all my records we're gone, my stereo, my TV,
but they'd left my box of poems untouched.
in the back of my mind I could hear Bukowski pissing himself laughing.