#1973 #AmericanWriters #AtTerrorStreetAndAgonyWay #BurningInWaterDrowningInFlame
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.
then there was the time in New Orleans I was living with a fat woman, Marie, in the French Quarter and I got very sick.
hooray say the roses, today is bla… and we are red as blood. hooray say the roses, today is Wed… and we bloom wher soldiers fell and lovers too,
she wrote me for years. “I’m drinking wine in the kitchen. it’s raining outside. the children are in school.” she was an average citizen
in the men’s room at the track this boy of about 7 or 8 years old came out of a stall
I went up to Tammie’s place with my cardboard cartons. First I got the items she mentioned. Then I found other things—other dresses and blouses, shoes, an iron, a hair dryer, Dancy’s cl...
I wait on life like a pregnancy, p… the gut but all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth throu… brain
are we going to the movies or not? she asked him. all right, he said, let’s go. I’m not going to put any pan ties… so you can finger-fuck me in the
your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank… be on the watch. there are ways out. there is a light somewhere.
if I suffer at this typewriter think how I’d feel among the lettuce— pickers of Salinas?
at their best, there is gentleness… some understanding and, at times,… courage but all in all it is a mass, a glo… have too much.
once we were young at this machine. . . drinking
I would, of course, prefer to be w… instead of with a photograph of an… to the sound of the anvil chorus a… girls kicking high, showing everyt… but I might as well be dead right…
had her for 3 units and at mid-term she’d read off how many assignment… stories had been turned in:
monkey feet small and blue walking toward you as the back of a building falls of… and an airplane chews the white sk…