Reading Bukowski

It sucks reading Bukowski sober.
I mean... 'I guess I'll have to'...
Cuz,
I am sober.
But how much better would this be,
With a couple of Dad's horse pill Vicodin.
Chemical clouds of crystal synthetically fogging the room.
A shot of round whiskey- washed back by a Corona with a fresh lime off the tree in the backyard.
All smoothed out by some of that California, recreational, above board-
Mar-i-juan-a.
It's not called weed anymore!
It's "marijuana".
And I'm not sneaking out of the house to drive mom and dad's passed down Ford station wagon to meet some guy in a truck that some guy at school knows who gave me his number and told me to meet him in this parking lot and to bring fifty bucks.
For an eighth,
An eighth of what?
Don't worry about that,
Just bring fifty bucks.
I get in his truck,
Or did he get in mom and dad's car?
It's been so long, I can't remember.
All I know is I gave him the money; 'we're on private property'.
He hands me a Ziploc baggie- actual Ziploc brand,
(you can tell by the thickness of the plastic)
Full of weed.
It's grassy,
It's brown,
It's dirt,
is that a twig?
I don't care.
Fifty dollars is so much money, but I don't care because,
Now I have my own weed!
I don't have to share.
I don't have to talk.
Or comprehend jokes.
I can just park,
And smoke.
Get so fucking stoned.
Listen to Counting Crows,
Then go to Del Taco and get a donut.
And pass out with the lights on.
God, I love strip malls.
God, I love California.
God, I love weed.
They should make this shit legal.
Who the hell is Charles Bukowski?

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