There's a certain campy punch to much of Bukowski that I really enjoy. I don't think it's necessarily intended, but's how I find myself reading it often; and many times it's why I pick up Bukowski.
This was such a time.
And The People Look Like Flowers At Last didn't disappoint.
There was an oddly reflective, surrealistically-tinged opening that worried me at first, but the collection settles in to the consciously rough-hewn edge that I so enjoy when I'm looking for a self-referential, half-winking escape. It means I read slower -- to draw out the time I can indulge -- and I'm sad to go.
Not so sorry to be leaving him; maybe, instead, the silly possibilities Bukowski is such a master at conjuring.