The reader of Charles Bukowski's poetry can feel certain of having strong reactions. Anger? The reader does not err if he is furious at the liberties Bukowski takes with content and style. Sympathy? The wailings of this writer-sufferer are all too clear, and often too accurate, for even the most cynical critic. Boredom? That Bukowski has shown a consistent urge merely to shock and intimidate with cliche is evident to the most inexperienced audience. Admiration? Give him half a chance and he will charge your day with an image or idea that pounds at the brain. Confusion? Yes, finally the reader will be left to ponder the most basic questions of poetic principle (Bukowski doesn't care), artistic decorum (this poetry is not for the kids), and existence (who is this beer-swilling, tough-talking, death-obsessed writer, and why does one get the impression that his eyes might dance behind the...