I get too many
phone calls.
they seek the
creature out.
they shouldn’t.
I never phoned
Knut Hamsun or
Ernie or
Celine.
I never phoned
Salinger
I never phoned
Neruda.
tonight I got
a call:
“hello. you
Charles Bukowski?”
“yes.”
“well, I got a
house.”
“yes?”
“a bordello.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve read your
books. I’ve got a
houseboat in
Sausalito.”
“all right.”
“I want to give you
my phone number. you
ever come to San Francisco
I’ll buy you a drink.”
“o.k. give me the
number.”
I took it down.
“we run a class joint. we’re
after lawyers and state senators,
upper class citizens, muggers,
pimps, the like.”
“I’ll phone you when I
get up there.”
“lots of the girls
read your books. they
love you.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
we said goodbye.
I liked that
phone call.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
