We who love Bukowski do so because he effortlessly and simultaneously embodies a swaggering tough guy and a cynical, down-on-his-luck loser, with a charming tinge of melancholy optimism. His unique poetic voice lies at the intersection of these contradictions, giving rise to works lacking in pretension that manage to wring the often heartbreaking essence out of that which might otherwise be considered mundane. (And isn't that what poetry does best?) The very first poem-the titular one-throws the figurative arms of the collection wide open and extends the kind of welcome one might expect from Bukowski:

my wormy hell welcomes you.
hello.hello there. come in, come on in!
plenty of room here for us all,
sucker.

Worms and all, the invitation is one that you cannot refuse. The first section (entitled "i live near the slaughterhouse and am ill with thriving") shares ruminations on each aspect of the Bukowski trinity-- Drinking, Writing and Women – and all the overlapping spaces between. Some might complain that his subject matter is too lowbrow. To his detractors, the poet says in one piece:

when i first began
there was much complaining about
the content of my
poems and stories.
"who cares about the low life of a
drunken bum?"
is that all he can write about,
whores and puking?"

and now
their complaint is:
"who cares about the life of a
rich
bum?
why doesn't he write about whores
and puking
anymore?"

The pieces are literary snapshots of his experiences and thoughts. Criticism of the content is tantamount to criticism of his lifestyle, more than anything else. They are remembered moments, like the sight of a wonderfully leggy woman in "the vision," his opinions on what makes for a good poem in "i'm not all-knowing but..." and his bemused reaction to his appeal to the academic set in "from the Dept. of English."

we are surprised:
you used to jab with the left
then throw a left hook to the body
followed by an
overhand right.
we like that
but we like your new way too:
where you can't tell where
the next punch
is coming
from.
to change your style like that when you're
not exactly a kid
anymore,
I think that takes some
doing.
anyhow, enough chitchat.
we're accepting your poems
for our departmental Literary Journal
and, by the way,
you are one of the poets selected for
class discussion
in our Contemporary Poetry Series.

no shit, baby?
well, suck my
titties.

This poem encompasses the subtle complexities that reside within the heart of so many American writers. There is, naturally, the desire to be recognized for one's efforts by the canon. Yet, there is the underlying fear that to be lauded by the tweedy set necessitates a loss of integrity. As he moves from self-proclaimed "low life of a drunken bum" to being a respected and successful writer, Come On In! illustrates that he manages to walk the line, appealing to both scholars and the everyman.

In the end, the beauty of this collection, as with all Bukowski works, does not come from his reaching for the moon, but rather from his ability to reach down inside and lay out what he dredges up with remarkable and tireless honesty. The results are admittedly familiar, but therein lay their charm. And surely, he doesn't mind if some of the chords he hits sound similar to each other: Bukowski is a man thoroughly resigned to his own humanity and content to ponder its intricate details of its repetitive nature for its own sake. As he says in "the real thing:"

as I play,
the incomprehensible mystery
of the past
and of the present
becomes
comprehensible.

and best of all,
as I play,
nobody hears the music
but me.

the music is only for
me.

that is my
dream.