I’ve been reading a lot of Charles Bukowski lately. Not sure why it took till I was nearly 40 to discover this writer. In the last 6 weeks, I’ve read each of his novels in chronological order, twice. Not kidding. That’s what happens when my obsessive side kicks in. Say what you will about Bukowski, that he was a genius, drunk, womanizer, misogynist, tender-hearted bastard, whatever. For me, his writing is the embodiment of the sacred and the profane in equal measures. And isn’t that life? Really. And since my brain has been awash in a steady stream of Chinaski, I’ve written a little ode to coffee styled in my rendering of his voice for your pleasure below.
It felt like novocaine had been injected behind my eyes. I could barely keep them open. My head felt like it was squeezed by a set of invisible hands. Was this what it was to be a zombie? Waking up each morning half dead? How could life be so banally ruthless? I didn’t know. Didn’t have the answers and didn’t care. That’s just the way it was. Life before you walked the springboard and dove into your first cup of coffee.
