#AmericanWriters
had lost the last race big somebody had stolen my coat could feel the flu coming on and my tires were low. I went in to get a
god I got the sad blue blues, this woman sat there and she said are you really Charles Bukowski?
as the poems go into the thousands… realize that you’ve created very little. it comes down to the rain, the sun… the traffic, the nights and the da…
they don’t make it the beautiful die in flame— suicide pills, rat poison, rope, w… ever... they rip their arms off,
they talk down through the centuries to us, and this we need more and more, the statues and paintings in midnight age
In the morning I heard her walkin… It was about 10:30 a.m. I was sic… She shook me. “Listen, I want you… “So what? I’ll screw her too.” “Yeah,” she laughed, “yeah.”
ask the sidewalk painters of Paris ask the sunlight on a sleeping dog ask the 3 pigs ask the paperboy ask the music of Donizetti
you know I sat on the same barstool in Phi… 5 years I drank canned heat and the cheape… I was beaten in alleys by well-fed…
By the time they called me to dinner I was able to pull up my clothing and walk to the breakfast nook where we ate all our meals except on Sunday. There were two pillows on my chair. I ...
So gramps wrote Joyce a big check and there we were. We rented a little house up on a hill, and then Joyce got this stupid moralistic thing. “We both ought to get jobs,” Joyce said, “to...
the girls were young and worked the streets but often couldn’t score, they
more wasted days, gored days, evaporated days. more squandered days, days pissed away,
turmoil is the god madness is the god permanent living peace is permanent living death. agony can kill
they’d come around and they’d ask “you finished your 2nd novel yet?” “no.”
with old cars, especially when you… and drive them for many years a love affair is inevitable: you even learn to accept their little