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September 02, 2021

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Though ineligible, I love the title, and can't resist:

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

Bob smoked a cigarette,
Chuck chugged a bottle of bourbon.
There was mutual respect
though each could see the fakeness
in the other's act. Only
their bodyguards were present.
It was like the chance meeting
of two priests in full priestly garb
alone in the street, with no one watching,
who get to share a good long laugh.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

Night fell, broke.
One day they'll reward you old man.
Chuck laughed. Me? Not me, but I'll tell you
this: if I knew guitar I'd strum the
moon out of the dumb sky. I'd make it sit on
the edge of my glass - and stare
at me for a change.
But you don't, Bob said
and Chuck laughed. Then I'll leave it
where it is, which he did, and
though Bob tries now and then, he
can't shift it.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

Nothing happened.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

The working poet asked the weekend warrior
for tips on travel between tours, other topics
were acoustics and sensible shoes, such is life.

Charles Bukowski in One Corner; in the Other, Bob Dylan

If anyone should take eighteen-shot Dylan Thomas’s name,
it’s me. I challenge you to a duel
with two bottles of Four
Roses.

--Chuck, that may be you, but
me, I crossed the green mountain
I slept by the sea.
you’re walkin’ in dreams
where black is the color
and nothing the number.

Bob, I got to tell you
I’m sorry for my wife
I’m sorry for anyone’s wife.
If you want me, find me clinging to a freight car,
Find me underground.
But you’ll never find me
vagrant in the rain, nabbed by a rookie cop,
a skirt, no less,
in Long Branch, New Jersey.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan sits at the end of a bar gawking
at a yellow legal pad and nursing a beer;
he’s waiting for Sam Shepard to pull up a
stool and help him finish writing lyrics to
‘Brownsville Girl’. Instead of Sam Shepard,
Charles Bukowski (looking nothing like
Mickey Rourke playing Charles Bukowski)
enters the bar, sees Dylan and yells, “Hey
Zimmy, my neighbors used to play ‘Blood on
the Tracks’ all day. Every time I took a shit
it was to one of your songs. What happened,
man?” Bob sips his beer, licks the end of his
pencil and scribbles: “It’s funny how things
never turn out the way you had ‘em planned”.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

I shit
you not.

WHEN CHARLES BUKOWSKI MET BOB DYLAN

A jaded old bard pounds a shot of J.D. and mocks an idealistic young troubadour. “So just how many beers must one man drink before he’s allowed to pass out?” The bartender chuckles at the joke. The young troubadour debates if Jesus will ever forgive these sins. Loose leaf papers holding his poems gets blown away in the wind. With a soul deader than a dead Christmas tree, the jaded old bard orders another beer and another shot. The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour. After all, poetry only happens when nothing else can. The sooner this kid learns the ways of the world the better. The young troubadour claims everyone gets stoned so he can abide. He pulls up a stool and throws down the shot. Old poet says “Don’t try.”

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan
© Surazeus
2021 09 08

Out on the signless road of the waste land
where the oldest woman in the world sings
the Jokerman holds cracked jewel in his hand
that reveals fractal code of angel wings.

Deep in the swamp behind Wonderland Park
where the oldest woman in the world laughs
the Fisherman steals unicorns from the Ark
to prove energy is equal to mass.

Lost in Cave of Illusions with Platon
where the oldest woman in the world dreams
the wingless angel follows Apollon
to measure passion of galactic strings.

When Charles Bukowski met Bob Dylan we
chose to follow Goddess of Liberty.

Corrected Version:

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan
© Surazeus
2021 09 08

Out on the signless road of the waste land
where the oldest woman in the world sings
the Jokerman holds cracked jewel in his hand
that reveals fractal code of angel wings.

Deep in the swamp behind Wonderland Park
where the oldest woman in the world laughs
the Fisherman steals unicorns from the Ark
to prove energy is equal to mass.

Lost in Cave of Illusions with Platon
where the oldest woman in the world dreams
the wingless angel follows Apollon
to measure passion of galactic streams.

When Charles Bukowski met Bob Dylan we
chose to follow Goddess of Liberty.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

I told him I only listen to classical music,
Povokiev, Beethoven, Shamskara,
his hair sitting up on his head
like a fruit basket of bullshit,

he claimed to like them too,
oblivious that I made up the third.

He called me a fraud, a pro wrestler,
asked me where my cape was.
He called me Killer Kowalski,
impressing me that the little
pussy knew something
about something.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

One piece, one place.
Everything you say
Seems to fit a pattern.
Maybe this will break it out.
I, myself, loved Killer Kowalski
And all he once stood for.
You think your next steps
even matter?
Take care, first, of your locked-down missus
Because pride in place means
Everything now.
I try to stay clear of a never-ending series,
You know... the invasive and rythmic collectivisation of all our bodies
Because I, myself, like myself just as I am,
Chuck

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

'Twas smack dab 'midst this lifetime, one of booze and rhyme,
When crustiness was a virtue, the rolling stone sublime,
He came into his dingy flat, a fellow far from fine,
Come in, he said,
I'll give ya a hefty glass of wine.

Few flat words was spoke between ‘em, foul-mouthed belches and a song,
Mostly passed the dirty jokes, the quips, well-worded wrongs,
Try imagining a pregnant tryst with fewer words for fear,
Come in, he said,
I'll give ya a lukewarm can of beer.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan


Charles envied Bob’s regret.
Bob envied Charles’ youth.
Both envied for the sake of poetry.
Neither envied for the sake of life.

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

They ran into each other in a nameless pub
Well isn’t that blowin’ Bob Dylan
who woos the critics with hypocritical subtleties,
Says Bukowski who writes his ass off to plead to readers
—a discordance with your gross and barbaric imagery.
The two men’s pride were hurt
and their table more and more crowded with empty glasses
When hours passed and someone walked over to them
he found two vulnerable babies asleep, y’all embracing their bodies stenched in beer and LSD.

Too late, I know, but I just saw this and could not resist the concept:

WHEN CHARLES BUKOWSKI MET BOB DYLAN

Just past the city limits
In an empty parking lot
Where uptown bleeds
Into nighttown
Under the arclight
Right there in the halflight
Where footlights never meet
Spotlight
Just after the hour
Between dog and wolf
You find her wandering alone
In tattered slippers and blood-stained nightgown
Singing songs of liberty and refusal
And throwing the words to the wind

Also couldn't resist


When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

by William Routhier


two in the afternoon
Bukowski sitting in a chair
drinking scotch and beer
in the dim-lit bar
there since it opened at eleven

Dylan beside him, smoking a cigarette
occasionally tilting his head
looking sideways at Bukowski
through Ray Bans, his long
fingernails scratching his cheek

“what is that shit you sing?”
Bukowski snarls, suddenly
Dylan appears both amused
and taken aback – grinning, says
“what? what particular shit are you
referring to now, Chuck?”

“christ, you know, that shit
I keep hearing on the radio,
magic swirling ships and
dancing spells, jingle jangling
smoke rings of your mind. God!
such horse shit! I could puke”

“well, that seems about right, Chuck,
they call you Buk the puke, you know”
Bukowski turns his head slowly
toward Dylan, like a lizard in the sun
“fuck those idiots
the only good line in the song is
‘let me forget about today until tomorrow’ ”

“hmm,” Dylan says “well, you know
I stole that line, Chuck, off ‘a
some old poet nobody remembers
no more – twisted it around a little

“fuck me – at least you got the sense,
my young poet friend, to steal good shit”

“well, I’m gonna steal from you next, you know, Chuck
seriously, though, I liked that book of yours
‘Love is a Dog from Hell’ read the whole thing”

Bukowski takes a long drink of beer
“Congratulations”

Dylan lights another cigarette
“you know I read a lot, Chuck,
and not just you, and stealing,
Woody Guthrie taught me that”

Bukowski looks down into his scotch
“I prefer classical music – but Guthrie,
there was one hell of a songwriter”
Dylan nods “can’t disagree with that”

Bukowski raises his glass of scotch
Dylan raises his beer
they clink glasses and drink

couldn't get it to come out short... sorry

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