Tony phoned and told me that Jan had left him but that he was a… helped him he said to think about… like D. H. Lawrence pissed off with life in general bu…

“your poems about the girls will s… 50 years from now when the girls a… my editor phones me. dear editor: the girls appear to be gone

I laugh sometimes when I think ab… say Céline at a typewriter or Dostoevsky... or Hamsun...

I used to hold my social security… up in the air, he told me, but I was so small they couldn’t see it,

there was a frozen tree that I wan… but the shells came down and in Vegas looking across at a g… at 3:30 in the morning, I died without nails, without a co…

I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.

We had a 3:30 pm flight out of Los Angeles that Saturday. At 2 pm I went up and knocked on Tammie’s door. She wasn’t there. I want back to my place and sat down. The phone rang. It was ...

oh, how worried they are about my soul! I get letters the phone rings... “are you going to be all right?”

welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.

the rag. she sat there, glooming. I couldn’t do anything with her. it was raining. she got up and left.

R.O.T.C. kept me away from sports while the other guys practiced every day. They made the school teams, won their letters and got the girls. My days were spent mostly marching around in...

my moustache is pasted-on and my wig and my eyebrows and even my eyes... then something stuns me... the lampshades swing, I hear

cleaned my place the other day first time in ten years and found 100 rejected poems: fastened them all to a clipboard much bad reading.

turmoil is the god madness is the god permanent living peace is permanent living death. agony can kill