Excess

“I own it!” The bad stomach from over indulgence of alcohol and bad acid in the eighties, back when I was a redneck hillbilly, prior to even hearing the name Bukowski. Just last week when my wife found me passed out in our new shiny sink full of vomit after drinking with the newspaperman and those girls, this is I Jack Hynes, born into an alcoholic family. It’s my story; only Bukowski had previously lived such a fate. It was my father with a glass of scotch bedside; it was my excessiveness that nearly killed me at 20 ripe years. It was my suicide attempts that will make this story real, not the brief encounter with that of the legendary Charles Bukowski.
It’s raining on the inside of my house with 100,000 words to write. A gutter from the inside out, spilling words into rust hole barrels leaking and loosing prose.

3 cans of beans
2 cans of smoked oysters
Flat bread/ cheese
2 cans of Campbell’s veggie soup
2 bottles of red wine
1 bottle of scotch
A dozen beers
Girls don’t dance until 5:30, gunna be long days.