#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
my friend is worried about dying he lives in Frisco I live in L.A. he goes to the gym and works with the iron and hits
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
it was up in San Francisco after my poetry reading. it had been a nice crowd I had gotten my money I had this place upstairs
I have lain in bed all day but I have written one poem and I am up now looking out the window and like a novelist might say
the boys come up the boys climb up the brown pole as the waterheater gurgles in Spanish
you won’t see them often for wherever the crowd is they are not. those odd ones, not
is a highrise apt. next door and he beats her at night and she… and I see her the next day standing in the driveway with curl… and she has her huge buttocks jamm…
I even hear the mountains the way they laugh up and down their blue sides and down in the water the fish cry
I was coming home from classes down Westview hill. I never had any books to carry. I passed my exams by listening to the class lectures and by guessing at the answers. I never had to cr...
drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight
the night I was going to die I was sweating on the bed and I could hear the crickets and there was a cat fight outside and I could feel my soul dropping…
One Sunday Jimmy talked me into going to the beach with him. He wanted to go swimming. I didn’t want to he seen wearing swimming trunks because my hack was covered with boils and scars....
dying has its rough edge. no escaping now. the warden has his eye on me. his bad eye. I’m doing hard time now.
big black beard tells me that I don’t feel terror I look at him
the feelings I get driving past the railroad yard never on purpose but on my way to… are the feelings other men have fo… see the tracks and all the boxcars