#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
the centerfielder turns rushes back reaches up his glove and
if I suffer at this typewriter think how I’d feel among the lettuce-pickers of Salinas?
all right, while we are gently cel… and while crazy classical music le… my small radio, I light a fresh ci… and realize that I am still very m… the 21st century is almost upon me…
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end o… of wine, I have typed from a dozen… poesy an old man maddened for the flesh of young gi…
yes, they begin out in a willow, I… the starch mountains begin out in… and keep right on going without re… pumas and nectarines somehow these mountains are like
and so we suck on a cigar and a beer attempting to mend the love
he used to sell papers in front: Get your winners! Get rich on a d… and about the 3rd or 4th race you’d see him rolling in on his ro… with roller skates underneath.
Soon after that I made regular and that gave me an 8 hour night, which beat 12, and pay for holidays. Of the 150 or 200 that had come in, there were only two of us left. Then I met Davi...
invent yourself and then reinvent… don’t swim in the same slough. invent yourself and then reinvent… and stay out of the clutches of medioc…
the pleasures of the damned are limited to brief moments of happiness: like the eyes in the look of a dog… like a square of wax,
this man used to be an interesting writer, he was able to say brisk and refreshing things. at the time
drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight
The toughest in the station. Apartment houses with boxes that had scrubbed-out names or no names at all, under tiny lightbulbs in dark halls. Old ladies standing in halls, up and down t...
the men phone and ask me that. are you really Charles Bukowski the writer? they ask. I’m a sometimes writer, I say, most often I don’t do anything.
it is not very good to not get through whether it’s the wall the human mind