Bukowski vs. Trump

I cried last night when my mother told me the news. “Your Dad is going to rehab again.” This morning I woke up at 3:45 and thought about drinking. Instead, I had a cup of tea. I turned on the television and “Don’t Let Me Down” was still paused from the night before, the rooftop concert. Browsing the notifications on my phone, I couldn’t resist opening a link to coverage of the impeachment hearings. As I watched, I couldn’t help but to think about the toll this information was taking on my psyche. I looked for something else to watch. I came across Beautiful Boy and, via this movie about addiction, encountered Bukowski’s “Let it Enfold You.” This poem reminded me of the beauty in his work, in this world of intoxicants. Not the euphoria and delusion, but the glimpses of reality that remind us we are still living. Drugs might numb the pain, but true beauty lies in the moments of realization that even moral degradation and degenerative behavior, when shared with world, is not glorifying itself, but that which is surrounding it. The truth of reality.

As disgusting and vulgar as Bukowski was in his actions, he bore his soul to show the pain. He was honest about his rejection of morality and his life of depravity. Nevertheless, I think he was trying to show us how terrible a life of addiction is. Even the most depraved seek comfort from the pain of knowing their actions are reprehensible. And even those who look, can still find beauty in this world beyond the filth, not in it. He was not ashamed to share his view of the world, nor his place in it. Because of this, he spared no account of his thinking to the public. It might be difficult for many to understand why his memory lives on as a dear poet, but I for one understand it.

I’m not excusing his reprehensible actions, but I do admire his desire to honestly portray his life in terms of what many other with the skill to write go through every day. I’m not without awareness of the fact that Trump is similar. However, Trump does not attempt to capture a picture of a tortured soul and beg anyone to understand the reality of his torment. No matter how despicable his actions, we have no reason he has a beautiful soul. Bukowski may have given us a sliver of perspective into the life of a depraved man who seeks beauty, but Trump cannot perceive the beauty of his own idiocy. Even the mailman wouldn’t wave at Trump if he honked the horn.