#AmericanWriters #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
I can remember starving in a small room in a strange city shades pulled down, listening to classical music I was young I was so young it hur…
the boys come up the boys climb up the brown pole as the waterheater gurgles in Spanish
Times were still hard. Nobody was any more surprised than I when Mears– Starbuck phoned and asked me to report to work the next Monday. I had gone all around town putting in dozens of a...
I took the envelope home to my mother and handed it to her and walked into the bedroom. My bedroom. The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even ...
Style is the answer to everything. A fresh way to approach a dull or… To do a dull thing with style is p… To do a dangerous thing with style… Bullfighting can be an art
I am watching a girl dressed in a light green sweater, blue shorts,… there is a necklace of some sort but her breasts are small, poor th… and she watches her nails
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.
I was back in L.A. about a week and a half. It was night. The phone rang. It was Cecelia, she was sobbing. “Hank, Bill is dead. You’re the first one I’ve called.” “I’m so glad you came ...
After 3 years I made “regular.” That meant holiday pay (subs didn’t get paid for holidays) and a 40 hour week with 2 days off. The Stone was also forced to assign me as relief man to 5 ...
vain vanilla ladies strutting while van Gogh did it to himself. girls pulling on silk hose
see this poem? was written without drinking. don’t need to drink to write.
I only met one student at City College that I liked, Robert Becker. He wanted to be a writer. “I’m going to learn everything there is to learn about writing. It will be like taking a ca...
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…
It was noon the next day when the phone rang. It was Lydia again. I heard a long insane wail like a wolverine shot in the arctic snow and left to bleed and die alone. . . . I slept most...
schoolgirls in pantyhose sitting on bus stop benches looking tired at 13 with their raspberry lipstick. it’s hot in the sun