eighteen holes of dark
I notice him once he’s blocked my path. This beautiful old man crew-cut angular face pock-marked skin thick lips – Charles Bukowski wearing clothes psychotic in their obstinate singularity. From out of nowhere: “Captain!” he bellows, salutes me. At attention his precision of appearance demands attention. “Hello,” I say. He knuckles under, graceful yet ingratiating. Asks for a cigarette. We light up. Savour the strong French tobacco. Shared narcosis. “Captain!” he bellows again. Salutes me. “Tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave, tell me a joke before you leave.”
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