#1993 #AmericanWriters #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
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,...
sway with me, everything sad— madmen in stone houses without doors, lepers steaming love and song frogs trying to figure
they don’t make it the beautiful die in flame— suicide pills, rat poison, rope, w… ever... they rip their arms off,
there is always that space there just before they get to us that space that fine relaxer the breather
I watched the board and the 6 drop… after a first flash of 18 from a m… of 12...two minutes to post and a… kept jamming against my back, but… I bet 20 to win and walked out to…
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.
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
The phone rang the next morning. Lydia had gone back to her place. It was Bobby, the kid who lived in the next block and worked in the porno bookstore. “Mindy’s down here. She wants you...
he was easy, fat as a hummingbird and I had him blowing, I jabbed and crossed and took my t… everybody was waiting for the main… drinking beer, and I was thinking
“what?” they say, “you got a computer?” it’s like I have sold out to the enemy. I had no idea so many
in junior high school Big Max was a problem. we’d be sitting during lunch hour eating our peanut butter sandwiche… and potato chips.
had it for a year, really put in lot of bedroom time, slept upright on two pillows to keep from coughing, all the blood drained from my head
The riots ended, the baby calmed down, and I found ways to avoid Janko. But the dizzy spells persisted. The doctor wrote me a standing order for the green-white librium capsules and the...
boy, don’t come around here tellin… can’t cut it, that they’re pitching you low and insid… they are conspiring against you, that all you want is a chance but…
a poem is a city filled with stree… filled with saints, heroes, beggar… filled with banality and booze, filled with rain and thunder and p… drought, a poem is a city at war,