#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
I paid this one’s fare all the way… to San Francisco then flew up to meet her at her br… and I got drunk and talked all night about a redhe…
the old folks play a game in the park overlooking the sea shoving markers across cement with wooden sticks. four play, two on each side
she’s up seeing my doctor trying to get some diet pills; she’s not fat, she needs the speed… I go down to the nearest bar and w… at 3:30 in the afternoon of a tues…
and so we suck on a cigar and a beer attempting to mend the love
was much easier to be a genius in… only 3 or 4 literary magazines and… or 5 times you could end up in Ger… you could possibly meet Picasso fo… maybe only Miró.
my daughter is most glorious. we are eating a takeout snack in my car in Santa Monica.
the feelings I get driving past the railroad yard never on purpose but on my way to… are the feelings other men have fo… see the tracks and all the boxcars
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.
I keep thinking it will be outside now waiting for me blue front bumper twisted
Back at Chelsey High it was the same. One group of seniors had graduated but they were replaced by another group of seniors with sports cars and expensive clothes. I was never confronte...
The boys on Dorsey station didn’t know my problems. I’d enter through the back way each night, hide my sweater in a tray and walk in to get my timecard: We had a game going, the black-w...
Her father really hated me. He thought I was after his money. I didn’t want his god damned money. And I didn’t even want his god damned precious daughter. The only time I ever saw him w...
he comes out at 7:30 a.m. every da… with 3 peanut butter sandwiches, a… there’s one can of beer which he floats in the baitbucket. he fishes for hours with a small t…
“You ought to try to be like Abe Mortenson,” said my mother, “he gets straight A’s. Why can’t you ever get any A’s?” “Henry is dead on his ass,” said my father. “Sometimes I can’t belie...
the motion of the human heart: strangled over Missouri; sheathed in hot wax in Boston; burned like a potato in Norfolk; lost in the Allegheny Mountains;