It occurred to me, while reading anything and everything that Charles Bukowski poetically gave us, that he may just be the end-all, be-all of contemporary culture. Well, that may be extreme, but time and time again, upon re-read after re-read, I am blown away with his savagery, with his ability to find an epicenter with minimal explanation, with his ability to capture the essence of a contemporary moment in a mere moment. Even the band Modest Mouse-a group touted by MTV and indie music snobs alike- have paid homage to him with a song called “Bukowski.” I could go on, but instead I’ll let him speak for himself:

“In This Cage Some Songs Are Born,” from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire 

I write poetry, worry, smile,

laugh

sleep

continue for a while

just like most of us

just like all of us;

sometimes I want to hug all

Mankind on earth

and say,

god damn all this that they’ve brought down

upon us,

we are brave and good

even though we are selfish

and dill each other and

kill ourselves,

we are the people

born to kill and die and weep in dark rooms

and love in dark rooms,

and wait, and

wait and wait and wait.

we are the people.

we are nothing

more.