#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
I watched the board and the 6 drop… after a first flash of 18 from a m… of 12...two minutes to post and a… kept jamming against my back, but… I bet 20 to win and walked out to…
it beats love because there aren’t… wounds: in the morning she turns on the radio, Brahms or… or Stravinsky or Mozart. she boil… eggs counting the seconds out loud…
twitching in the sheets— to face the sunlight again, that’s clearly trouble. I like the city better when the
one of Lorca’s best lines is, “agony, always agony ...” think of this when you
neither does this mean the dead are at the door begging bread before
if I suffer at this typewriter think how I’d feel among the lettuce— pickers of Salinas?
he carried a piece of carbon, a blade and a whip and at night he feared his head and covered it with blankets
she left me 5 weeks ago and went t… that is, I think she left. the other day I went out to mail h… and I saw her sitting on the bus s… it was her hair there
keep remembering the horses under the moon keep remembering feeding the horse… sugar white oblongs of sugar
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.
my friend William is a fortunate m… he lacks the imagination to suffer he kept his first job his first wife can drive a car 50,000 miles
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
the rag. she sat there, glooming. I couldn’t do anything with her. it was raining. she got up and left.
one of the terrible things is really being in bed night after night with a woman you no longer
I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future. I didn’t like what I saw down there. Those men and women had no special daring or brilliance. They wanted what everybod...