#AmericanWriters
Phillipe ’s is an old time cafe off Alameda street just a little north and east of the main post office. Phillipe’s opens at 5 a.m.
self-congratulatory nonsense as th… famous gather to applaud their see… greatness you wonder where
the lair of the hunted is hidden in the last place you’d ever look and even if you find it you won’t believe
over my radio now comes the sound of a truly mad org… can see some monk drunk in a cellar mind gone or found,
this man used to be an interesting writer, he was able to say brisk and refreshing things. at the time
Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed...
you no faces no faces at all laughing at nothing—
The next night as they moved the group from the main build– ing to the training building, I stopped to talk to Gus the old newsboy. Gus had once been 3rd-ranked welterweight contender b...
which reminds me I shacked with Jane for 7 years she was a drunk I loved her my parents hated her
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
don’t ever get the idea I am a poe… at the racetrack any day half drun… betting quarters, sidewheelers and… but let me tell you, there are som… who go where the money goes, and s…
is an orange animal with hand grenades fire power
I went into the bends. I got drunker and stayed drunker than a shit skunk in Purgatory. I even had the butcher knife against my throat one night in the kitchen and then I thought, easy,...
the blue pencil of the wave shots of yellow road a steering wheel an insane woman sitting next to you
dying for a beer dying for and of life on a windy afternoon in Hollywood listening to symphony music from m… on the floor.