#Americans #XXCentury #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
O lord, he said, Japanese women, real women, they have not forgotte… bowing and smiling closing the wounds men have made; but American women will kill you l…
these boys have got class they ought to make kings out of old men rolling cigarettes in rooms small enough
between 2 and 5 p.m. any day and a… Wednesday, it’s 20% off for us old dogs approaching the sunset… it’s strange to be old and not fee… old
listening to Bruckner on the radio wondering why I’m not half mad over the latest breakup with my latest girlfriend wondering why I’m not driving the…
I went over the other day to pick up my daughter. her mother came out with workman’s overalls on. I gave her the child support money
We got back to 1010. I had my check. I’d left word that we didn’t want to be disturbed. Tammie and I sat drinking. I’d read 5 or 6 love poems about her. “They knew who I was,” she said....
A week later I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard with Lydia. A weekly entertainment newspaper published in California at that time had asked me to write an article on the life of the...
The rainy season began. Most of the money went for drink so my shoes had holes in the soles and my raincoat was torn and old. In any steady downpour I got quite wet, and I mean wet-down...
“Get a seat for her, put her on the tab,” I told Marty. “All right. We’ll set her up. We’re S.R.O. We’ve had to turn away 150 and it’s 30 minutes before you go on.” “I want to introduce...
you no faces no faces at all laughing at nothing—
she’s young, she said, but look at me, I have pretty ankles, and look at my wrists, I have pret… wrists
call it the greenhouse effect or w… but it just doesn’t rain like it u… I particularly remember the rains… depression era. there wasn’t any money but there w…
if you’re a man, Los Angeles is w… battle; or if you’re a woman, and… the rest, you sail it against a mo… when you grow grey you can hide in… in a mansion so nobody can see how…
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.