I PISSED IN BUKOWSKI'S TOILET

went to newbury street yesterday and watched the mongrels buy jeans that cost as much as some families make in a month of working in certain foreign countries. my word those mongrels can shop. meanwhile a lady with one half of one working leg and only one good arm sat in her wheelchair in the middle of the street muttering help. help. help. no one could help her, only god i imagine could save her from the pathetic existence that is her life. but all digressions aside- we ate at fire and ice, flipped off the civic planners in the next building because we can, drank whiskey and ran through the city like we were golden griffins brazened by the fuel and by the world itself. we did more of the newbury street thing, yes i bought some shit, no it wasnt expensive, and then made the short walk to mecca. lying on the end of scotia st. (of course it would be the name of my hometown) was bukowski's tavern. no more whiskey for us though, as one of our party members was only 19 and wasnt allowed to take in the scenery of the visage of chuck plastered everywhere. smoking, drinking, writing, laughing, soon to be drunk, hungover, or just plain old drunk. i pissed in the urinal, grabbed my satchel of goods and left mecca, thirsty and worn from the day, i turned and watched that tavern disappear over the footbridge that we used to grab the train that took us back home, where the bars arent named after literary genius', but do the job just the same.