#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.
it was up in San Francisco after my poetry reading. it had been a nice crowd I had gotten my money I had this place upstairs
the centerfielder turns rushes back reaches up his glove and
saw him sitting in a lobby chair in the Patrick Hotel dreaming of flying fish and he said “hello friend you’re looking good.
Some say we should keep personal r… poem, stay abstract, and there is some r… but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don’t keep…
the schoolyard was a horror show:… freaks the beatings up against the wire f… our schoolmates watching glad that they were not the victim…
here I am in the ground my mouth open and
big sloppy wounded dog hit by a car and walking toward the curbing making enormous sounds
Style is the answer to everything. A fresh way to approach a dull or… To do a dull thing with style is p… To do a dangerous thing with style… Bullfighting can be an art
We ran up the long ramp. I was ca… At the escalator Tammie saw the f… “Please,” I said, “we only have f… “I want Dancy to have the money.” “All right.”
The next day in bed I got tired of waiting for the airplanes and I found a large yellow notebook that had been meant for high school work. It was empty. I found a pen. I went to bed wit...
god I got the sad blue blues, this woman sat there and she said are you really Charles Bukowski?
she reads to me from the New York… which I don’t buy, don’t know how they get in here, but it’s something about the Mafia one of the heads of the Mafia
he’s a runt he snarls and scratches chases cars groans in his sleep and has a perfect star above each…
It was noon the next day when the phone rang. It was Lydia again. I heard a long insane wail like a wolverine shot in the arctic snow and left to bleed and die alone. . . . I slept most...