January 2022 – raenegade

The taxi came at me like a rhinoceros
It bumped me off the street and ran away.
For a split moment I was airborne doing flips like a pro,
Then gravity kicked in and I crash-landed with a resounding thwack.
The asphalt gave me some lovin’ –
Split eyebrow, bruised chin, a tooth missing,
Fireflies in broad daylight.
‘Motherfucker you’re busted’ –
The old man was laughing at my face.
‘You drunk, motherfucker? No? See that’s the problem. Here. Take a swill.’
He held out a hooch bottle for me.
‘One should always be drunk,’ the old man quipped
‘Baudelaire said that. He said, get drunk, stay drunk.
With wine, with poetry, with virtue. Choose your poison.
But get drunk.’
Gruffy beard. Stringy yellow hair. Dirt under the nails. Pale, kind eyes.
Something hurt him bad. Or someone. Only the hurt is kind.
‘Now don’t give me that look, son.’ The Baudelaire bum wasn’t done with me yet.
‘You think you’re better off than me? Har har.
I was a slave like you once. Then I defeated the tyranny of money.
No more shackles. No more cackles. Wild and free.
Me, I’m closer to a lion now. Y’all are just fucking sewer rats.
That taxi spared you alright. But life won’t. Nah, you’re fucked through and through.
Here, take a sip and let it sink.’
I grabbed the plastic bottle and went for it.
The moonshine stank like kerosene. It scorched my innards.
Another glug. Then another. Face numb, head dizzy.
‘See? It’s liquid power baby. It stops the man drag you down to your knees.
‘The man?’ I said.
‘The man. The manager. The manure muncher that eats shit for a living.
He is out there to get you.
If you see him around the corner, kick his teeth and say fuck you. Say it.’
‘Fuck you,’ I snorted.
‘Thats right son. Fuck ’em.
Drink up. You’re wild and free. You’re alive.
Too bad those motherfuckers are dead already. Not you, uh-uh.
Get drunk. With wine, with poetry. Better still, with love.’
The Baudelaire bum lighted a cigarette and got up.
‘Hey! Hang on,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Hank. Henry. Charles. They call me Bukowski.’
And then he began his long walk into the dazzling midday sun.