Bukowski, for me, is like a lazier, less articulate Henry Miller. The writing in his novels is similar to that of Miller's in its explicit and autobiographical nature, but he's like the mumbling, torpid beer drinker to Miller's forceful whiskey-fueled diatribes. You'll find small pieces of whit and genuine humor in his novels, but overall he's the poor man's Miller. When it comes to Bukowski's poetry, however, his eloquence emerges. It's beautiful in its simplicity and despair.