#Americans #XXCentury #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
the boy walks with his muddy feet… soul talking about recitals, virtuosi,… the lesser known novels of Dostoev… talking about how he corrected a w…
you consult psychiatrists and phil… when things aren’t going well and whores when they are. the whores are there for young boy… men; to the young boys they say,
death wants more death, and its we… I remember my father’s garage, how… I would brush the corpses of flies from the windows they thought were… their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
I have lain in bed all day but I have written one poem and I am up now looking out the window and like a novelist might say
lonely as a dry and used orchard spread over the earth for use and surrender. shot down like an ex—pug selling dailies on the corner.
Then there were only 6 or 7 of us.… “How you doing on your scheme, Ch… “No trouble at all,” I said. “O.… “Yes, Woodburn.” “Listen, I don’t like to be bothe…
these women are supposed to come and see me but they never do. there’s the one with the long scar…
the legs are gone and the hopes—th… and I haven’t shaved in sixteen da… but the mailman still makes his ro… water still comes out of the fauce… myself with glazed and milky eyes…
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
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 ...
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.
almost dawn blackbirds on the telephone wire waiting as I eat yesterday’s forgotten sandwich
smoking a cigarette and noting a m… flattened out against the wall and died as organ music from centuries back… my black radio
you have to have it or the walls w… in. you have to give everything up, th… away, everything away. you have to look at what you look…
Thanks for the good letter. I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from. You know the places where I came from. Even the people who try to write about that or mak...