He is the roughest, seediest part of town you are white-knuckling it through, wondering how and why you took that particular road people told you about; there’s a pay-off. Pedal down, peripheral prostitutes posturing every corner, the shattered whiskey bottles, shards of lives littering the landscape. Slide a hairpin turn, and there it is. Bukowski’s gift of the surprise beauty — a turn of brilliant phrase, a glittering word hanging from the trees like Louisiana moss, amazement catching in your throat like dice that came up just right. -J
