I saw a man who looked just like Bukowski.
He sat in an old Kia Sportage wearing a
blue shirt, waiting for his wife
to come out of the grocery
store.
I looked his way twice and smiled, baffled at the resemblance with
the fellow poet.
Just the previous night, I faintly remember I saw him in a dream, for one of his books sits on my armoire. Perhaps my dreams are now taking physical form, manifesting in conscious reality.
In my dreams, I saw who I thought was my father, sitting on the baseball stands, as I called him on a cellphone. An unknown sympathetic man picked up. I apologized, but the man did not mind and he was kind. The man sitting was not my father. He was someone else, an illusion, a message from the unconscious.
I spend a lot of time now studying things my teachers failed to teach me or I failed to learn. And running through the mountain roads I call home, envisioning my future friends and I embracing the difficulties and pain of life through training.
I now train and study to become like the Hurricane, a warrior and a scholar — to earn my picture on the wall of heroes that wait for me.
The world breaks once more, in war it destabilizes, and I just happen to be alive in this moment in history, hoping to do something worthy of some remembrance before I walk amongst my fathers “in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever.”