we are gathered here now to bury her in this poem. she did not marry an unemployed wi… beat her every

I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh,

having the low down blues and goin… into a restraunt to eat. you sit at a table. the waitress smiles at you. she’s dumpy. her ass is too big.

I’ve come by, she says, to tell yo… that this is it. I’m not kidding,… over. this is it. I sit on the couch watching her ar… her long red hair before my bedroo…

Lydia met me at the airport. She was horny as usual. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “I’m hot! I play with myself but it doesn’t do any good.” “Lydia, my leg is still in terrible shape. I jus...

the old fart, he used his literary… to reel them in one at a time, each younger than the last. he liked to meet them for luncheon… wine

it is not very good to not get through whether it’s the wall the human mind

I only met one student at City College that I liked, Robert Becker. He wanted to be a writer. “I’m going to learn everything there is to learn about writing. It will be like taking a ca...

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.

Then Joyce wanted to go back to the city. For all the draw– backs, that little town, haircuts or not, beat city life. It was quiet. We had our own house. Joyce fed me well.) Plenty of m...

It was hot that night at the reading, which was to be held at St. Mark’s Church. Tammie and I sat in what was used as the dressing room. Tammie found a full-length mirror leaning agains...

One morning a few days later I entered Lydia’s courtyard as she was walking in from the alley. She had been over to see her friend Tina who lived in an apartment house on the corner. Sh...