My shoes are off and the hammers

of decision have stopped. I have an

ice cold Corona and I take a long

pull on it and think of Jack Spicer and

the moon tonight, which is an odd

shade of gray. Spicer dying of his

"vocabulary" the same year I spent 3 months

in Nam, not recorded on any of my Army

records, trying so intently not to die ...

like exploding dinosaurs or burning cities.

I was looking to destroy more than

invented ways of dying: "The negative that

cannot happen" and "No love deserves the

death if has." I died one night in a fire fight,

in my mind, as those around me were

dead and maimed. The moon is casting its shadow

over the mountains like blue-green sulfur,

as I sip my beer. And I think of my mind and

Jack Spicer's mind and my callused feet as

I stand here unfolding an AP story given to me

two years ago by a friend at the newspaper

I worked for, about Bukowski dying. Bukowski's gone!

I figured he'd at least make to 95 like his

German grandfather. I walk from my deck and back into

the house, and draw a steaming hot bath and light a Dutch Master

cigar in memory and honor, remembering the haunted

and exhilarating streets of East Hollywood, and my

little house in the back on Winnona Boulevard, Bukowski:

a negative that cannot happen. When I'm done with

my bath, I walk back outside to finish my beer in one

gulp and open another one, not bothering

to hold back the tears.