Charles Bukowski was a poet, novelist, and drunk — though not always in that order. Born in Germany and raised in Los Angeles, he made a name for himself writing about poverty, sex, alcohol, loneliness, and working crappy jobs. His alter ego, Henry Chinaski, was the man he almost was and sometimes truly became: crude, cruel, brilliant, broken.

Bukowski didn’t believe in polishing sentences — or people. He typed like he was throwing punches. But beneath the filth and spit was real tenderness: a raw, brutal love for life’s losers, liars, and late-night wanderers. He didn’t want to be admired. He wanted to be read while bleeding