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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.
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