He is Hank to anyone who knows. When he drinks it is just enough to release something bright, alive (his soul?), or stifle something dark, putrid (his soul?). Hank wears a shell – like a June bug. Shining blue, purple, red, green, reflecting light from a hard edged rainbow; up close, grotesque, spiny, monstrous. Trapped in a cold water room thump-thumping into window glass -buzzing, clicking, lethargic, ominous. Finally, someone opens the window. Releases him to hum at the porch light until the window closes and he returns to the comfort of rhythm, glass and the room he cannot reach.
June Bug Love For Charles Bukowski
30 Sunday Dec 2012
you, sir, are on word fire.