Me, Buttkowski, and our unhappy theory

My dad once said to me (again 1ooo years ago): "Are you sure you should be reading this Buttkowski guy? He's very depressing." I responded, "It's Bukowski, not Buttkowski, and to me he's not depressing, its comforting that someone knows how I feel when I'm depressed." This sums it up better than anything else I've ever come across:

Beast by Charles Bukowski

my beast comes in the afternoon

he gnaws at my gut

he paws my head

he growls

spits out part of me

my beast comes in the afternoon

while other people are taking pictures

while other people are at picnics

my beast comes in the afternoon

across a dirty kitchen floor

leering at me

while other people are employed at jobs

that stop their thinking

my beast allows me to think

about him,

about graveyards and dementia and fear

and stale flowers and decay

and the stink of ruined thunder.

my beast will not let me be

he comes to me in the afternoons

and gnaws and claws

and I tell him

as I double over, hands gripping my gut,

jesus, how will I ever explain you to

them? they think I am a coward

but they are the cowards because they refuse to

feel, their bravery is the bravery of

snails.

my beast is not interested in my unhappy

theory—he rips, chews, spits out

another piece of

me.

I walk out the door and he follows me

down the street.

we pass the lovely laughing schoolgirls

the bakery trucks

and the sun opens and closes like an oyster

swallowing my beast for a moment

as I cross at a green light

pretending that I have escaped,

pretending that I need a loaf of bread or

a newspaper,

pretending that the beast is gone forever

and that the torn parts of me are

still there

under a blue shirt and green pants

as all the faces become walls

and all the walls become impossible.