Chuck

I read her Chuck (Bukowski) after the second time we fucked that night.

We had been reading stuffy love poems from some Spanish poet before that (I was reading them to her like the stuffy pretentious prick I am sometimes).

She liked Chuck better.

So did I. 

. . . That should be a red flag. It really should. 

But it isn't. 

She said that Chuck sounded honest. 

And I agreed. He reported on the rawness of life with an honesty that lacks in most. An unusual poet, this Chuck guy is. He doesn't sugar coat it. He doesn't pull his punches. It's barely even poetry but somehow better than most poetry. 

I told her that someone called me a, ‘Bukowski wannabe fuckboy’ once.

She asked me if I took it as a compliment. 

I smiled and said that I had. (I hadn’t. I was actually pretty salty about it.) 

Back when I was drowning in myself, because someone didn't love me back, I might've drank a lot and read a lot of Chuck; and I might've had a style like his. 

I told her that was before I started writing books, though. Now I'm stuffy and pretentious. I accidentally read too much philosophy. And I accidentally studied too much psychology. And I might’ve even taken a liking to science and theology. And I accidentally sacrificed 'The Fighter'. Oops. (See how much of an asshole I've become?)

I really killed the Chuck vibes. (Thank god.)

And I don't drink like I did for those two years. 

I don't pretend to be Chuck anymore. 

. . .

I read her a poem about Chuck complaining about not having anything to write about, so he was going to write about writing. It was funny, and it was barely a poem. 

 It was strange, though,

Because I have one real rule when writing,

And that was to never write about writing. 

I think it's crazy cheesy for a writer to write about writing. (But here I am, basically writing about writing. Such a stuffy hypocrite.)

How is it creative for a writer to write about writing?? That seems like you're barely trying there, Chuck? (I wish I could have a drink with him, and go to the tracks, and cat-call broads just once. After our 7th glass of wine, I'd ask him about it. I'd hear him out.)

I never realized before that this writing rule of mine had come from Chuck. It came from this random poem in this collection of his, Slouching Toward Nirvana - which was also the same name as the playlist I was playing for her at that moment. Weird coincidence, I guess.

I don't think I write like him anymore. Though, I feel as if I should ask you. Do I write like that dirty old drunk?

. . . Would you tell me the truth if I did? Chuck would, I bet. 

Damn. 

-CH 6/22/25