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.

So I took the exam, passed it, took the physical, passed it, and there I was—a substitute mail carrier. It began easy. I was sent to West Avon Station and it was just like Christmas exc...

the German hotel was very strange… double doors to the rooms, very th… looked the park and the vasser ter… it was usually too late for breakf… would be everywhere changing sheet…

when I look back now at the abuse I took from her I feel shame that I was so innocent,

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...

blue fish, the blue night, a blue… everything is blue. and my cats are blue: blue fur, bl… blue whiskers, blue eyes. my bed lamp shines

which reminds me I shacked with Jane for 7 years she was a drunk I loved her my parents hated her

On Thursday night Bobby phoned again. “Hey, man, what are you doing?” “Oh, come on, man, I’ll just stay for a few beers. . . .” “You treat him mean. He gets lonely when his wife is at w...

it is the man you’ve never seen wh… keeps you going, the one who might arrive someday. he isn’t out on the streets or

first they used to, he told me, gun and bomb the elephants, you could hear their screams over… but you flew high to bomb the peop… you never saw it,

yesterday drunken Alice gave me a jar of fig jam and today she whistles

twitching in the sheets— to face the sunlight again, that’s clearly trouble. I like the city better when the

I hear them outside: “does he always type this late?” “no, it’s very unusual.” “he shouldn’t type this

they’d come around and they’d ask “you finished your 2nd novel yet?” “no.”