my old man

Corporal punishment was cruel and unfair. I could count by the fingers of my one hand the times I had to discipline my only child. And my recollection was that they were all very mild measures of punishment. I felt I had to do so in order to stop at once the intolerably unruly behavior. I didn't think the measures left any traumatic memories to him or me or anybody else. Compared to many, many other fathers, I was very gentle with my son.

Bukowski had a brutal childhood because of his father who also constantly abused his mother. It was remarkable that Bukowski turned out okay and lived until the age of 73 despite heavy drinking and whoring. He wrote stories, novels and poems. He published his first story when he was 24. His poetry was very raw, disarming, uncensored, and full of unprintable four letter words depicting sex organs  and sex acts. Some poems were truly memorable. Over ten years ago, I was thunderstruck by the following lines and made them mine by changing and adding a few words:

"Three o'clock in the morning
I stopped and listened
Somewhere close by
A stone met a heart
The sound of hurt."

I received quite a lot of corporal punishment while growing up. As a consequence, I hate all figures of authority and despise with a passion those who hunger for power.

Wissai
16 years old and suffering from massive depression
i'd study very little
while writing stories late into the night

one summer night, staggered home drunk after being in the woods with the boys, found all my clothing--
shorts, shirts, shoes--and suitcase,
and pages of stories strewn around on the lawn and on the street

mother was waiting,
"Roberto, Roberto, don't go in...he'll kill you...he's read your stories..."

" i can whip his ass..."

"please, Roberto, take this...and find yourself a room."

but it worried him i wouldn't finish
high school and would get drafted
into the freaking war
so he asked my mother to get me back

one evening he walked in
with the pages of
one story of mine
and he said, "this is
a good story."
and gave them to me
and I read the story
it was about
a rich man
who had a fight with his wife
and his teenage son who threatened him with a knife

so he left the house
and went into town
for a cup of coffee
and observed
the waitress and the spoons
and folks and
the salt and pepper shakers
and the tables and chairs
and the customers
and then went back
to the back of the house
where he kept his horse in the stable
he talked to his horse and touched and caressed the horse who then suddenly kicked him in the head
and killed him.

somehow the story touched him
though when i wrote it i wanted him dead.

so i said, "okay, old man. you can have it."

and he took it
and walked out and closed the door.
that was as close as we ever got.

a year later he took a walk in the woods
and an old branch snapped off and hit him in the head
and he died shortly thereafter.

mother cried at the funeral but i didn't then.

Wissai
adapted from Charles Bukowski's "my old man"