Mickey Rourke: More Bukowski Than Bukowski

B1278-BS9

Yes, Bukowski has what could be called a huge cult following. He is famous. But for what? For his prose and his poetry, or for the legend that was his life? Charles Bukowski, a “laureate of American lowlife,” as Time Magazine said of him, wrote his own legend and legacy. He is known to have written thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories, and six novels. Yet, one who knows about this man knows of a little film called Barfly, in which Mickey Rourke acted the role of Bukowski, the movie based on semi-autobiographical material from Bukowski’s own work. Yet some may or may not know the talent of Mickey Rourke, who, although he had major lulls in his career, played some well-acted parts, and this is one. It could be claimed that Rourke himself, along with the directors and producers and fellow-actors involved in the film (Faye Dunaway), made the legend of Bukowski something much more than his works alone had done. Debatable, but not to anyone really in the know. Okay, for me, at least, the movie is the only thing Bukowski I find worthwhile.

Now, from the information offered so far, what really stands out is that this writer wrote thousands of poems. What a feat, right? No! We can extrapolate from his known poems that the reason he wrote so many was merely because poems, when no care is taken in the writing of the work for the end of quality, are easy writes, they take both less time and less energy. Now, before I damn this man to the Hell of the hack, I’ll mention something once recorded from an interview with William Faulkner. Faulkner was asked why he wrote short stories and novels, and his answer was revealing of his own attempts at literary craft. He said, in different terms, that every writer worth his salt wants to be a poet; when he finds poetry too difficult, he aims to become a short story writer; when that is too much, he becomes a novelist. I guess you could add in the areas of the playwright and the screenwriter as well (Faulkner himself worked for Hollywood while he was drinking profusely), but where to place them is not on my itinerary, for we do know that both Tennessee Williams and Shakespeare wrote poetry, Shakespeare more successful as a poet than Williams. Yes, this interview with Faulkner was the same in which he declared a thousand dead grandmothers (or was it a million?) are worth one “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” but that is another matter, one of his declaration of passion. Back to Bukowski, he, like any writer, wished to be considered a poet—hell, Jim Morrison wanted to be remembered as a poet. But today is a day of reckoning for the poet Bukowski; I hope to prove to all those intelligent enough not to worship this man of the fact that he was no poet at all, and I’ll use one of his lauded poems out of those thousands to prove it. Bukowski, whose skill in prose is even questionable, lives on in his legend, as a poet above all else.

Now, we know his legend is one of a boozer, a womanizer, and a righteous loser. This aspect of the legend cannot be questioned. But his work, his great work, must be questioned, and since I have delimited myself to writing essays mostly on poetry, that is the path we shall take. Important to note in this realm is that the man never even claimed to be influenced by any of the poets of note in the way he claimed a lineage for his prose, as far as I know. So, let’s get strait to the masterwork of this poetaster before further reflecting on his legend in general. Because I can’t find the poetry anthology that actually houses a Bukowski poem in my great collection, I’ll look for it online; there are many of his poems available right on the internet; I don’t know of anything like it, really, except for the older writers whose work is out of copyright. Here’s the great work:

Crucifix In A Deathhand

yes, they begin out in a willow, I think

the starch mountains begin out in the willow

and keep right on going without regard for

pumas and nectarines

somehow these mountains are like

an old woman with a bad memory and

a shopping basket.

we are in a basin. that is the

idea. down in the sand and the alleys,

this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,

held like a crucifix in a deathhand,

this land bought, resold, bought again and

sold again, the wars long over,

the Spaniards all the way back in Spain

down in the thimble again, and now

real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway

engineers arguing. this is their land and

I walk on it, live on it a little while

near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms

listening to glazed recordings

and I think too of old men sick of music

sick of everything, and death like suicide

I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your

hold on the land here it is best to return to the

Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,

the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women

many years before

arguing

with the same young Japanese clerks

witty, knowledgeable and golden

among their soaring store of oranges, apples

avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -

and you know how

these

look, they do look good

as if you could eat them all

light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.

then it's best to go back to the bars, the same bars

wooden, stale, merciless, green

with the young policeman walking through

scared and looking for trouble,

and the beer is still bad

it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and

decay, and you've got to be strong in the shadows

to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself

and the shopping bag between your legs

down there feeling good with its avocados and

oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs

a Fort Lauderdale winter?

25 years ago there used to be a whore there

with a film over one eye, who was too fat

and made little silver bells out of cigarette

tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then

although this was probably not

true, and you take your shopping bag

outside and walk along the street

and the green beer hangs there

just above your stomach like

a short and shameful shawl, and

you look around and no longer

see any

old men.

To begin with this somewhat long poem, I will first say that I can see in this work much of what I see in the near-anonymous works of online poetry journals on a regular basis. Yes, I stay connected to the contemporary state of poetry in this way quite often, searching for a worthwhile poem through hundreds of works of pabulum. Now, let us carefully meander through this wasteland that almost skillfully pretends at being a poem. Bukowski knew how to fake it, but in poetry, a fake fake is a phony and a failure. All of the prosaic insights into sex, women, work, gambling, and of course drinking, common to his prose, should make up for his lack of poetic ability, right? We’ll see.

yes, they begin out in a willow, I think

the starch mountains begin out in the willow

and keep right on going without regard for

pumas and nectarines

somehow these mountains are like

an old woman with a bad memory and

a shopping basket.

we are in a basin. that is the

idea. down in the sand and the alleys,

this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,

held like a crucifix in a deathhand,

this land bought, resold, bought again and

sold again, the wars long over,

the Spaniards all the way back in Spain

First, I’ll say that this poem has enjambment that could not be worse. Okay. The punctuation is implied, and easily interpolated. The prose-to-line begins at the beginning of the “starch mountains,” at the willow, he thinks. Pumas and nectarines come straight out of Stevens, or maybe another poet’s work. I guess he did read poetry on occasion. Only here they have little meaning; this moment is of little moment. The old woman comes as a poorly chosen simile for mountains, replete with a basket and a poor memory—let’s see if this finds significance later. I suppose he means that the basin is, in this case, the sand and the alleys. In a few epithets (no, mere adjectives) serially arranged we wind up in the poem’s great moment: but how is the land “held like a crucifix in a deathhand?” Perhaps it is held in memory. Moving on, the land is bought and sold, and the war that has something to do with the Spanish (The Spanish-American War?) who are now back in Spain. So far we are building a poem piece by piece, no grand tricks, no outstanding performance. The only thing close to music is one case of repetition. The deathhand with its crucifix should add up to more, but there is so little of poetic interest, so let us continue.

down in the thimble again, and now

real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway

engineers arguing. this is their land and

I walk on it, live on it a little while

near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms

listening to glazed recordings

and I think too of old men sick of music

sick of everything, and death like suicide

I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your

hold on the land here it is best to return to the

Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,

I am almost randomly cleaving sections of the poem apart for examination, save the beginning here, which is obviously an implied sentence’s beginning. No classical witty paradoxes? The thimble may or may not be the punched-in basin. And the idea of land and its value and trade is established. But Bukowski lives and walks on it. Then we are near Hollywood. Yes, young men and rooms, but ‘glazed’ recordings? I guess there are things I don’t know. Yes, there is sometimes punctuation in the poem, but it is used whenever. This senseless use and desuetude of punctuation requires no explanation because there can be none. No magic tricks of poetics come of it, no alternate meanings are brought out, no enjambment is achieved. The old men are ‘sick of it all.’ And death is sometimes a matter of intentionality or prerogative, a nice idea poorly expressed. Next comes an unbelievably unpoetical series of statements about getting the land at the “Grand Central Market” and the old Mexican women being there. This chunk of the poem is without any merit; the closest he comes to expressing a poetic idea is the notion that sometimes death is voluntary. Maybe he should have mentioned the deathhand again. Is the deathhand voluntary? Maybe he should have prayed to Satan’s deathhand for some talent. He sold his soul only to be published by the uncritical Black Sparrow Press.

the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women

many years before

arguing

with the same young Japanese clerks

witty, knowledgeable and golden

among their soaring store of oranges, apples

avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -

and you know how

these

look, they do look good

as if you could eat them all

light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.

What do we learn of the old Mexican chicks? They’re poor, so one wonders how he’ll get a hold on the land from them. Are these the women with the basket and the poor memory? Has something been tied to the earlier appearance of a bad simile? No, these women, whom we should probably remember, for they don’t change, one gathers, argue with young Japanese clerks, smart guys who are golden, who have fruits and a vegetable. But, dear lord, you could eat them (one hopes the fruits) and smoke away the “bad” world with a cigar. What a mind for words. What a fluent force is our friend, the legend of working-class words. Strange that so many other, far better, poets were not officially schooled in English, yet Bukowski is chosen for fools to slaver over. And why does he mention wit? It only reminds us that he stands in need of it.

then it's best to go back to the bars, the same bars

wooden, stale, merciless, green

with the young policeman walking through

scared and looking for trouble,

and the beer is still bad

it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and

decay, and you've got to be strong in the shadows

to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself

and the shopping bag between your legs

down there feeling good with its avocados and

oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs

a Fort Lauderdale winter?

Who needs a Fort Lauderdale winter? Not me, I hate Fort Lauderdale; I’d rather stay here on the west coast of Florida with my family and friends. Anyway, Bukowski returns to more familiar territory, the bars, the bars of four epithets that have no bearing on anything—no, they are mere adjectives in space, a lame attempt at poesy. The bars that are green, merciless, stale, and wooden. A frightened cop “looking for trouble”—great turn of a phrase there; the commonplace common man puts on his old hat. And what is it about this beer? It’s just bad; what a useful adjective. Then he plays the momentary poet, indicating that the beer already encompasses its outcome. I’m trying to understand how “strong in the shadows” could sound poetic to anyone, at least in a Bukowski poem. But then it’s a matter of ignoring it all, including the bag of your stuff between your legs. But how does it follow that you don’t need “a Fort Lauderdale winter?” What has that to do with a’ that? Do you think he ever read a Robert Burns poem? I’m taking bets; yeah, Bukowski, like you do at the track. Please, do not despair more than necessary; we’re almost there.

25 years ago there used to be a whore there

with a film over one eye, who was too fat

and made little silver bells out of cigarette

tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then

although this was probably not

true, and you take your shopping bag

outside and walk along the street

and the green beer hangs there

just above your stomach like

a short and shameful shawl, and

you look around and no longer

see any

old men.

The whore. Yes, we almost pray for a coded confession, like a good B-movie horror flick. Bukowski killed a whore “with a film over one eye,” who was not only fat, but even too fat for him, and who played habitually with cigarette packet wrapping—but silver bells? Can’t anything mean anything? Or connect to anything else? Couldn’t you at least attempt to layer or bury something of meaning in your lines? I mean, pull out an almanac or some reference book and randomly pick an entry; something more substantial, and possibly even momentous, would have to come of at least some random effort. The sun used to be warmer, believe me. Duh. Uh oh, some brand of suspense might be building: “although this was probably not true.” Too bad we’ll never know which part wasn’t true: the confession of murdering a prostitute? Do you think? Okay, we’re transported, not by the words in combination, but simply by the narrative, to the outside of walking along the street with our plastic bag filled with fruits and a cucumber—oh, and wine too. But the beer is suddenly green—it must be St. Patrick’s Day. And the beer, in a mug we suppose, held above your belly, is like “a short and shamefull shawl.” Yes, music, alliteration. Not that it helps. What was this, a final attempt at music, to rescue the poem from the Hell of the hack? Okay, the poem’s done. You’ve made sure there are no more old men. But here we are, abandoned at the sublevels of verse. And we don’t even gain the drunkard’s insight into being a drunkard.

Has this poem offered anything? Insight into real estate? Something about old men or old women that we hadn’t known prior? Something about the way that beer turns green by the time you run out of ideas? I must say, there was never any danger of this man—the one who wrote this poem—becoming a poet. Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan—might as well throw in Leonard Cohen—wrote better verse. So that must be our conclusion. If Charles Bukowski was a poet, so was Mr Morris, my high school algebra teacher. Only, Mr. Morris was equally lacking in social graces; I’m not sure how much he drank. But with a little work and a little more attitude, Morris too could have been a literary legend.

Is this the ‘concrete’ poem that my compatriots said I should write, as not to be misunderstood? Yes, Charles B. gives it to us straight. He was a hard man who lived a hard life who had a very hard time coming up with a synonym for ‘bad.’ Yeah, yeah, it’s always funny until someone gets skinned. If only Charles Bukowski, the literary hack, had actually murdered prostitutes, maybe then we could justify his fame, his cult status as the proverbial drunk ‘dirty old man.’ Well, when the dilettante drinks past the point of drunk, the poetaster produces the dimwit’s desiderata. This magician cut his woman in half, not knowing the difference. Wait, is this the point where I sew her back together? I don’t get it. Now, my dear friends so ignorant of the true nature of poetry, you are no longer allowed to call Bukowski a poet. Call him a writer; that will give us plenty of material for a good laugh, without completely insulting our life’s work.

Return to Bylines