Bukowski arrived at the scene after a single motorcyclist collided with a pedestrian and then a telephone pole, killing both men. The motorcyclist was being pursued by a state trooper cruiser, according to press reports, including one by Bukowski. He was charged with disorderly conduct, a misdemeanor, "and then given a ride home by the cops," reported the Metro News.

I suppose what is so intriguing about his writing is the unpretentious pretension that crashes and curses along the page. 

Every other line drives 85 mph through storefront windows, crushes women and children under its steel belly, stopping only to intersect their hearts in thick derision. 

Every other word wraps around each other’s backs, inches together, rocking slowly, and massaging each other’s fronts all the way through. 

Each stanza is a neighbor and his water hose, and he always seems to stare out over his dahlias like he is alone in the world.  For fifteen to twenty minutes every day during summer he is alone with his thoughts, and I watch him.  I watch him pick his nose and flick it into the fanning stream of sunbleached water.  He clears his throat and brushes his free hand through his greying hair after wetting it in the spray.  When his wife pulls in the driveway he drops the hose and greets her.  Water pumps freely into the grass. 

It’s that very reason I think I hold on to all the dark nights like a wardrobe change between scenes, a tender indiscretion between a boy in stage crew and a manikin, and grandfather’s old pocket watch donated as a prop.

My ex-wife’s therapist asks me, if it wasn’t for Rebecca, would I ever consider anti-depressives.  I tell her, no, that I don't consider them.  I don't want to know that feeling, I say.  Otherwise, I want to know every feeling.  Most importantly though, I want to know that all the feelings I ever have are my own. 

This is when I begin to panic, remembering that I'm out of gin and tomorrow happens to be Sunday.