#1973 #AmericanWriters #AtTerrorStreetAndAgonyWay #BurningInWaterDrowningInFlame
to be writing poetry at the age of… like a schoolboy, surely, I must be crazy; racetracks and booze and arguments with the landlord;
god I got the sad blue blues, this woman sat there and she said are you really Charles Bukowski?
she was sitting in the window of room 1010 at the Chelsea in New York, Janis Joplin’s old room. it was 104 degrees
sleepy now at 4 a.m. hear the siren of a white ambulance,
the words have come and gone, I sit ill. the phone rings, the cats sleep. Linda vacuums. I am waiting to live,
I even hear the mountains the way they laugh up and down their blue sides and down in the water the fish cry
she pulled her dress off over her head and I saw the panties indented somewhat into the crotch.
he packaged it up neatly in differ… sending the legs to an aunt in St.… the head to a scoutmaster in Brook… the belly to a cross-eyed butcher… the female organs were sent to a y…
I mean, I just slept I awoke with a fly on my elbow and I named the fly Benny then I killed him and then I got up and looked in th…
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
I had been corresponding with Tanya and on the evening of January 5th she phoned. She had a high excited sexy voice like Betty Boop used to have. “I’m flying down tomorrow evening. Will...
I get too many phone calls. they seek the creature out. they shouldn’t.
One night I was assigned to the stool next to Butchner. He didn’t stick any mail. He just sat there. And talked. A young girl came in and sat down at the end of the aisle. I heard Butch...
I kept the date in mind. It was never any problem creating a split with Lydia. I was naturally a loner, content just to live with a woman, eat with her, sleep with her, walk down the st...
64 days and nights in that place, chemotherapy, antibiotics, blood running into the catheter. leukemia.