Dearest Charles Bukowski,
You know I’m part of your readership. I’ve read you since high school, argued to have you a part of my MFA education and always taught you during my poetry classes. Your words are just as visceral to me now as the first time I discovered them. The closest to your work would be Kurt Sutter. You would’ve loved him.
I have a picture of you on my nightstand–you and Alex King. You are the two men I regret never meeting. You two inspired my writing, make me love the simple act of creating and make me feel okay with wearing my heart on my sleeve. You have always made me want to write, to love words, to listen to the stories around me.
But to be fair I wouldn’t have talked shop with you. I would’ve simply liked to have danced with you. You were 73 when I was 7. Had you only lived anther 11 years. We could’ve tangoed. I have dresses in my closet I know you’d have liked on me. I would’ve asked you not to write a poem about me though. Dancing together would’ve been poetry enough.
I just read the newest collection of your letters. On Writing. I’ve got to be fair with you (and I know you’ll understand and appreciate my honesty), it wasn’t a great collection. The editor had a concept in mind but it didn’t always seem cohesive. Your letters were chopped up a bit and, at times, things got muddied or repetitive.
I’m not saying I would’ve done any better as an editor, but having read a majority of your work, I’ve always enjoyed your detailed and short pieces. They leave me satisfied with the morsels yet desirous to hear more. The collection demanded a thesis from your letters and the humor was lost. Your thesis and ideas were lost.
But there were some damn good letters in the collection–though I’d read them before and they seemed better in the older letter collections published. I got more out of them years earlier in these large tomes because I had to sift through so many letters. So the sentences that inspired me were well earned.
The letters I did read in this edition, and I don’t know if I should feel happy or sad, made me think of Yans. That image of you sitting in front of your typewriter–writing and drinking…Yans does that a lot too. But unlike you, he hates what he writes and throws it away. Doesn’t let anyone see it. Recently, if I read a word of what is on his desk, he promptly crumbles it up and throws it in the trash.
There were plenty of times you hated your work, but you still sent them to readers, to magazines–rejection sucked but it helped you get better as a writer. I think of you when I sit down to submit work to various publications. These things makes us stronger, no?
But he is drinking so much. By his desk is a bag with bottles and ties. I worry he is getting sick. There are days where is seems strong. But more days when he feels weak and lost, sick and wanting of death. I wish I could write a better life for him, but he isn’t one of my characters. He’s a person, a person I love. So I’m mad that he is drinking too much…just like I’m mad at you for drinking so much. If you weren’t able to dance with me, then I want to dance with him. I worry we won’t have any time to do so.
Tonight you have made me think of writing, of Yans, and of words. Words I could only tell you. I think I’ll be in love with you until all the stars grow cold.
One day, we’ll meet, so your shoes better not pinch if we are to dance.
With more love I ever imagined I’d have (so much so, Yans would be jealous of you),
Jae Dawson
jaedawson 