no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it, it was somebody else's fault. it wasn't because they didn't have talent; no matter how they stank they always believed in their genius. they could always trot out Van Gogh or Mozart or two dozen more who went to their graves before having their little asses lacquered with Fame. but for each Mozart there were 50,000 intolerable idiots who would keep on puking out rotten work. only the good quit the game - like Rimbaud or Rossini. Burkett lit another cigarette, once again holding the flaming match in front of him as he spoke: "listen, you print Bukowski. and he's slipped. you know he's slipped. admit it, man! hasn't Bukowski slipped, huh? hasn't he?" "so, he's slipped." "he writes SHIT!" "if shit sells then we'll sell it. listen, Mr. Burkett, we aren't the only publishing house. why don't you try somebody else? just don't accept our judgment." Burkett stood up. "what the hell's the use? you guys are all alike! you can't use good writing! the world has no use for REAL writing! you couldn't tell a human being from a fly! because you're dead! DEAD, ya hear? ALL YOU FUCKERS ARE DEAD! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!" Burkett threw his burning cigarette on the rug, turned about, walked to the door, SLAMMED it and was gone. Henry Mason got up, picked up the cigarette, put it in the tray, sat down, lit one of his own. no way of giving up smoking on a job like this, he thought. He leaned back and inhaled, so glad that Burkett was gone --- those guys were dangerous --- absolutely insane and vicious --- especially those who were always writing about LOVE or SEX or the BETTER WORLD. Jesus, jesus. he exhaled. the inter- come buzzer rang. he picked up the phone. "a Mr. Ainsworth Hockley to see you?" "what's he want? we sent him his check for LUSTS AND BUSTS ON THE CAMPUS." "he says he has a new story." "fine. tell him to leave it with you." "he says he hasn't written it." "o.k., have him leave the outline. I'll check it out." "he says he doesn't have an outline." "wutz he want, then?" "he wants to see you personally." "you can't get rid of him?" "no, he just keeps staring at my legs and grinning." "then, for Christ's sake. pull your dress down!" "it's too short." "all right. send him in." in came Ainsworth Hockley. "sit down," he told him. Hockley sat down. then jumped up. lit a cigar. Hockley carried dozens of cigars. he was afraid of being a homosexual. that is, he didn't know whether he was a homosexual or not, so he smoked the cigars because he thought it was manly and also dynamic, but he still wasn't sure of where he was. he thought he liked women too. it was a mix-up. "listen," said Hockley, "I just sucked a 36 inch COCK! gigan- tic!" "listen, Hockley, this is a business. I just got rid of one nut. what do you want with me?" "I want to suck your COCK, man! THAT'S what I want!" "I'd rather you didn't." the room was already smoggy with cigar smoke. Hockley really shot it out. he jumped out of the chair. walked around. sat down. jumped out of the chair. walked around. "I think I'm going crazy." said Ainsworth Hockley. "I keep thinking of cock. I used to live with this 14 year old kid. huge COCK! god. HUGE! he beat his meat right in front of me once, I'll never forget it! and when I was in college, all these guys walking around the locker rooms, real cool- like ya know? why one guy even had BALLS down to his KNEES! we used to call him BEACH- BALLS HARRY. after BEACHBALLS HARRY came, baby it was all OVER! like a waterhose spurting curdled cream! when that stuff dried- why, man in the morning he'd have to beat the sheets with a baseball bat, shake the flakes off before he sent it to the laun- dry-" "you're crazy, Ainsworth." "I know, I know, that's what I'm telling YA! have a cigar!" Hockley poked a cigar at his lips. "no, no, thank you." "maybe you'd like to suck MY cock?" "I don't have the slightest desire. now what do you want?" "I've got this idea for a story, man." "o.k., write it." "no, I want you to hear it." Mason was silent. "all right," said Hockley, "this is it." he walked around shooting smoke. "a spaceship, see? 2 guys and 4 women and a computer. here they are shooting through space, see? days, weeks go by. 2 guys, 4 women, the computer. the women are getting real hot. they want it, see? got it? "got it." "but you know what happens?" "no." "the two guys decide that they are homosexuals and begin to play with each other. they ignore the women entirely." "yeah, that's kind of funny. write it." "wait. I'm not done yet. these two guys are playing with each other. it's disgusting. no. it isn't disgusting! anyhow, the women walk over to the computer and open the doors. and inside this computer there are 4 HUGE cock and balls." "crazy. write it." "wait. wait. but before they can get at the cocks, the machine shows up with assholes and mouths and the whole damned machine goes into an orgy with ITSELF. god damn, can you imagine?" "all right. write it. I think we can use it." Ainsworth lit another cigar, walked up and down. "how about an advance?" "one guy already owes us 5 short stories and 2 novels. he keeps falling further and further behind. if it keeps up, he'll own the company." "give me half then, what the hell. half a cock is better than none." "when can we have the story?" "in a week." Mason wrote a check for $75. "thanks, baby," said Hockley, "you're sure now that we don't want to suck each other's cocks?" "I'm sure." then Hockley was gone. Mason walked out to the receptionist. her name was Francine. Mason looked at her legs. "that dress is pretty short, Francine." he kept looking. "that's the style, Mr. Mason. "just call me 'Henry.' I don't believe I ever saw a dress quite that short." "they get shorter and shorter." "you keep giving everybody who comes in here rocks. they come into my office and talk like crazy." "oh, come on, Henry." "you even give me rocks, Francine." she giggled. "come on, let's go to lunch," he said. "but you've never taken me to lunch before." "oh, is there somebody else?" "Oh, no. but it's only 10:30 a.m." "who the hell cares? I'm suddenly hungry. very hungry." "all right. just a moment." Francine got out the mirror, played with the mirror a bit. then they got up and walked to the elevator. they were the only ones on the elevator. on the way down, he grabbed Francine and kissed her. she tasted like raspberry with a slight hint of halitosis. he even pawed one of her buttocks. she offered a token resistance, pushing against him lightly. "Henry! I don't what's gotten into you!" she giggled. "I'm only a man, after all." in the lobby of the building there was a stand which sold candy, newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, cigars- "wait a moment, Francine." Mason bought 5 cigars, huge ones. he lit one and let out an immense spray of smoke. they walked out of the building, looking for a place to eat. It has stopped raining. "do you usually smoke before lunch?" she asked. "before, after and in between." Henry Mason felt as if he were going just a bit insane. all those writers. what the hell was wrong with them? "hey, here's a place!" he held the door open and Francine walked in. he followed her. "Francine, I sure like that dress!" "you do? why thank you! I've got a dozen similar to this one" "you have?" "umm hummm." he pulled up her chair and looked at her legs as she sat down. Mason sat down. "god, I'm hungry. I keep thinking of clams, I wonder why?" "I think you want to fuck me." "WHAT?" "I said, 'I think you want to fuck me.'" "oh." "I'll let you. I think you're a very nice man, a very nice man, really." the waiter came up and waved the smoke away with his menu cards. he handed one to Francine and one to Mason. and waited. and got rocks. how come some guys got nice dolls like that while he had to beat his meat? the waiter took their orders, wrote them down, walked through the swinging doors, handed the orders to the cook. "hey," said the cook, "whatcha got there?" "whadya mean?" "I mean, ya got a horn! In front there! stay away from ME with that thing!" "it's nothing." "nothing? you'll kill somebody with that thing! go throw some cold water on it! it just don't look nice!" the waiter walked into the men's room. some guys got all the broads. he was a writer. he had a whole truck full of manuscripts. 4 novels. 40 short stories. 500 poems. nothing published. a rotten world. they couldn't recognize talent. they kept talent down. you have to have an "in," that's all there was to it. rotten cocksucking world. waiting on stupid people all day. the waiter took his cock out, put it in the hand basin and began splashing cold water on it. === **Life and Death in the Charity Ward** The ambulance was full but they found me a place on top and away we went. I had been vomiting blood from the mouth in large quantities and I was worried that I might vomit upon the people below me. We rode along listening to the siren. It sounded far off, it sounded as if the sound weren't coming from our ambulance. We were on the way to the county hospital, all of us. The poor. The chariy cases. There was something different wrong with all of us and many7 of us would not be coming back. The one thing we had in common was that we were all poor and didn't have much of a chance. We were packed in there. I never realized that an ambulance could hold so many people. "Good Lord, oh good Lord," I heard the voice of a black woman below me, "I never thought this would happen to ME! I never thought nothing like this would Lord-" I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted. He had moved a little close a little fast on me that night. There had been warnings: pains like swords stuck in my stom- ach but I had ignored them. I had thought I was a tough guy and pain to me was just like bad luck: I ignored it. I just poured whiskey on top of the pain and went about my business. My business was getting drunk. The whiskey had done it; I should have stayed on the wine. Blood that comes from the inside is not the bright red color that comes, say, from a cut on the finger. The blood from inside is dark, a purple, almost black, and it stinks, it stinks worse than shit. all that life giving fluid, it smelled worse than a beer shit. I felt another vomiting spasm coming on. It was the same feeling as throwing up food and when the blood came out, one felt better. But it was only an illusion-each mouthful out brought one closer to Pappa Death. "O good Lord God, I never thought-" The blood came up and I held it in my mouth. I didn't know what to do. Up there on the upper tier I would have wetted my friends down quite good. I held the blood in my mouth trying to think about what to do. The ambulance turned a corner and the blood began to dribble out the corners of my mouth. Well, a man had to maintain decencies even while he was dying. I got myself together, closed my eyes and swallowed my blood back down. I was sickened. But I had solved the problem. I only hoped we got some- place soon where I could let the next one go. Really, there wasn't any thought of dying; the only thoughts I had were (was) one: this is a terrible convenience, I am no longer in control of what is happening. They narrowed down your choices and pushed you around. The ambulance got there and then I was on a table and they were asking me questions: what was my religion? Where was I born? did I owe the country any $$$ from earlier trips to the hospital? when was I born? Parents alive? Married? all that, you know. They talk to a man as if he had all his faculties; they don't even pretend that you are dying. And they are hardly in a hurry. It does have a calming effect but that's not their reason: they are simply bored and they don't care whether you die, fly or fart. No, they rather you didn't fart. Then I was on an elevator and the door opened into what appeared to be a dark cellar. I was rolled out. They placed me on a bed and left. An orderly appeared out of nowhere and gave me a small white pill. "Take this," he said. I swallowed the pill and he handed me a glass of water and then vanished. It was the kindest thing that had happened to me in some time. I leaned back and noticed my sur- roundings. There were 8 or ten beds, all occupied by male Ameri- cans. We each had a tin bucket of water and a glass on the night stand. The sheets seemed clean. It was very dark in there and cold, much the feeling of an apartment house cellar. There was one small light bulb, unshaded. Next to me was a huge man, he was old, in his mid fifties, but he was huge; although much of the hugeness was fat, he did give off the feeling of much strength. He was strapped down in his bed. He stared straight up and spoke to the ceiling. "-and he was such a nice boy, such a clean nice boy, he needed the job, he said he needed the job, and I said, 'I like your looks, boy, we need a good fry cook, a good honest fry cook, and I can tell an honest face, boy, I can tell character, you work with me and my wife and you got a job here for life, boy-' and he said, 'All right, sir,' just like that he said it and he looked happy about getting' that job and I said, 'Martha, we got us a good boy here, a nice clean cut boy, he ain't gonna tap the till like the rest of those dirty sons of bitches.' Well, I went out and got a good buy on chickens, a real good buy on chickens. Martha can do more things with a chick- en, she's got that magic touch with chicken. Col. Sanders can't touch her with a 90 foot pole. I went out and bought 20 chickens for that weekend. We are going to have a good weekend, a chicken special. 20 chickens I went out and got. We were going to put Col. Sanders out of business. A good weekend like that, you can pull 200 bucks clear profit. That boy even helped us pluck and cut those chickens, he did it on his own time. Martha and I didn't have no children. I was really taking a liking to that boy. Well, Martha fixed the chicken in the back, she got all that chicken ready-we had chicken 19 different ways, we had chicken coming out of our assholes. All the boy had to do was cook up the other stuff like burgers and steak and so forth. The chicken was set. And by god, we had a big weekend. Friday night, Saturday and Sunday. That boy was a good worker, and pleasant too. He was nice to be around. He made these funny jokes. He called me Col. Sanders and I called him son. Col. Sanders and Son, that's what we were. When we closed Saturday night we were all tired but happy. Every damned bit of chicken was gone. The place had been packed, people waitin' on seats, you never saw any- thing like it. I locked the door and got out a 5th of good whiskey and we sat there, tired and happy, having a few drinks. The boy washed all the dishes and swept the floor. He said, 'All right, Col. Sanders, when do I report tomorrow?' He smiled. I told him 6:30 a.m. and he got his cap and left. 'That's a hell of a nice boy, Martha,' I said and then I walked over to the till to count the profits. The till was EMPTY! That's right, I said, 'The til was EMPTY!' And the cigar box with the other 2 days profit, he found that too. Such a clean cut boy-I don't understand it-I said he could have a job for life, that's what I told him. 20 chickens-Martha really knows her chickens-And that boy, that dirty chickenshit, he ran off with all that damned money, that boy-" Then he screamed. I've heard a great many people scream but I've never heard anybody scram like that. He rose up against his straps and screamed. It looked as if those straps were going to break. The whole bed rattled, the wall roared the scream back at us. The man was in total agony. It wasn't a short scream. It was a long one and it went on and on. Then he stopped. We 8 or ten male Ameri- cans, ill, stretched in our beds and enjoyed the silence. Then he began talking again. "He was such a nice boy, I liked his looks. I told him he could have the job for life. He made these funny jokes, he was nice to be around. I went out and got those 20 chickens. 20 chickens. On a good weekend you can clear 200. We had 20 chickens. The boy called me Col. Sanders-" I leaned out of bed and vomited out a mouthful of blood- The next day a nurse came out and got me and helped me on a rolling platform. I was still vomiting up blood and was quite weak. She rolled me on the elevator. The technician got behind his machine. They poked a point into my belly and told me to stand there. I felt very weak. "I'm too weak to stand up," I said. "Just stand there," said the technician. "I don't think I can," I said. "Hold still." I felt myself slowly beginning to fall over backwards. "I'm falling." I said. "Don't fall." He said. "Hold still," said the nurse. I fell over backwards. I felt as if I were made of rubber. There was no feeling when I hit the floor. I felt very light. I probably was. "Oh god damn it!" said the technician. The nurse helped me up and stood me up against the machine with this point jamming into my stomach. "I can't stand it," I said, "I think I'm dying. I can't stand up. I'm sorry but I can't stand up." "Stand still," said the technician, "just stand there." "Stand still," said the nurse. I could feel myself falling. I fell over backwards. "I'm sorry," I said. "God damn you!" the technician screamed, "you made me waste two films! Those god damned films cost money!" "I'm sorry," I said. "Take him out of here," said the technician. The nurse helped my up and put me back on the roller. The humming nurse rolled me back to the elevator, humming. They did take me out of that cellar and put me into a large room, a very large room. There were about 40 people dying in there. The wires to the buttons had been cut and large wooden doors, thick wooden doors coated with slabs of tin on both sides closed up away from the nurses and the doctors. They had put the sides up around my bed and I was asked to use the bedpan but I didn't like the bedpan, especially to vomit blood into and far less to shit into. If a man ever invents a comfortable and usable bedpan he will be hated by doctors and nurses for eternity and beyond. I kept having a desire to shit but not much luck. Of course, all I was getting was milk and the stomach was ripped open so it had offered me some tough roast beef with half-cooked carrots and half-mashed potatoes. I refused. I knew they just wanted another empty bed. Anyhow, there was still this desire to shit. Strange. It was my second or third night in there. I was very weak. I managed to unattach one side and get out of bed. I made it to the crapper and sat there. I strained and sat there and strained. Then I got up. Noth- ing. Just a little whirlpool of blood. Then a merry-go-round started in my head and I leaned against the wall with one hand and vomited up a mouthful of blood. I flushed the toilet and walked out. I got halfway to my bed and another mouthful came up. I fell. Then on the floor I vomited up another mouthful of blood. I didn't know that there was so much blood inside of people. I let go another mouthful. "You son of a bitch," an old man hollered at me from his bed, "shut up so we can get some sleep." "Sorry, comrade," I said, and then I was unconscious- The nurse was angry. "You bastard," she said, "I told you not to take down the sides of your bed. You fuckin' creeps sure make my night a drag!" "your pussy stinks," I told her, "you belong in a Tijuana whore house." She lifted my head by the hair and slapped me hard across the left side of my face and then backhanded me across the right. "Take that back!" she said. "Take that back!" "Florence Nightingale," I said, "I love you." She put my head back down and walked out of the room. She was a lady of true spirit and fire; I liked that. I rolled over into my own blood, getting my smock wet. That'd teach her. Florence Nightingale came back with another female sadist and they put me in a chair and slid the chair across the room toward my bed. "Too much god damned noise!" said the old man. He was right. They got me back into bed and Florence put the bed side back up. "Son of a bitch," she said. "stay in there now or next time I'm gonna lay on you." "Suck me off," I said, "suck me off before you leave." She leaned over the railing and looked into my face. I have a very tragic face. It attracts some women. Her eyes were wide and passionate and looked into mine. I pulled the sheet down and pulled up my smock. She spit into my face, then walked out- Then the head nurse was there. "Mr. Bukowski," she said, "we can't let you have any blood. You don't have any blood credit." She smiled. She was letting me know that they were going to let me die. "All right," I said. "Do you want to see the priest?" "What for?" "We have on your admissions card that you are a Catholic." "I just put that down." "Why?" "I used to be. You put down 'no religion', people always ask a lot of questions." "We have you down as Catholic, Mr. Bukowski." "Listen, it's hard for me to talk. I'm dying. All right, all right, I'm a Catholic, have it your way." "We can't let you have any blood, Mr. Bukowski." "Listen, my father works for the county. I think they have a blood program. L.A. County Museum. A Mr. Henry Bukowski. He hates me." "We'll check it out." There was something about my papers going down while I was upstairs. I didn't see a doctor until the fourth day and by then they found that my father who hated me was a good guy who had a job and who had a drunken dying son without a job and the good guy had given blood to the blood program and so they hooked up a bottle and poured it to me. 13 pints of blood and 13 pints of glucose without stop. The nurse ran out of places to stick the needle- I awakened once and the priest was standing over me. "Father," I said, "please go away. I can die without this." "You want me to leave, my son?" "Yes, Father." "Have you lost the faith?" "Once a Catholic always a Catholic, my son." "Bullshit, Father." An old man in the next bed said, "Father, Father, I'll talk to you. You talk to me, Father." The priest went over there. I waited to die. You know god damned well I didn't die then or I wouldn't be telling you this now- They moved me into a room with a black guy and a white guy. The white guy kept getting fresh roses every day. He raised roses which he sold to florists. He wasn't raising any roses right then. The black guy had busted open like me. The white guy had a bad heart, a very bad heart. We lay around and the white guy talked about breed- ing roses and raising roses and how he could sure use a cigarette, my god, how he needed a cigarette. I had stopped vomiting blood. Now I was just shitting blood. I felt like I had it made. I had just emptied a pint of blood and they had taken the needle out. "I'll get you some smokes, Harry." "God, thanks, Hank." I got out of bed. "Give me some money." Harry gave me some change. "If he smokes he'll die," said Charley. Charley was the black guy. "Bullshit, Charley, a couple of little smokes never hurt any- body." I walked out of the room and down the hall. There was a cigarette machine in the waiting lobby. I got a pack and walked back. Then Charley and Harry and I lay there smoking cigarettes. That was morning. About noon the doctor came by and put a ma- chine on Harry. The machine spit and farted and roared. "You've been smoking, haven't you?" the doctor asked Harry. "No doctor, honest, I haven't been smoking." "Which one of you guys bought him these smokes?" Charley looked at the ceiling. I looked at the ceiling. "You smoke another cigarette and you're dead," said the doc- tor. Then he took his machine and walked out. As soon as he left I took the pack out from under the pillow. "Lemme have one," said Harry. "You heard what the doctor said," said Charley. "Yeah," I said, exhaling a sheath of beautiful blue smoke, "you heard what the doctor said: 'You smoke another cigarette and you're dead.'" "I'd rather die happy than live in misery," said Harry. "I can't be responsible for your death, Harry," I said, "I'm going to pass these cigarettes to Charley and if he wants to give you one he can." I passed them over to Charley who had the center bed. "All right, Charley," said Harry, "let's have 'em." "I can't do it, Harry, I can't kill you Harry." Charley passed the cigarettes back to me. "Come on, Hank, lemme have a smoke." "No, Harry." "Please, I beg you, man, just one smoke just one!" "Oh, for Christ's sake!" I threw him the whole pack. His had trembled as he took one out. "I don't have any matches. Who's got matches?" "Oh, for Christ's sake," I said. I threw him the matches- They came in and hooked me to another bottle. About ten minutes my father arrived. Vicky was with him, so drunk she could hardly stand up. "Lover!" she said, "Lover boy!" She staggered up against the edge of the bed. I looked at the old man. "You son of a bitch," I said, "you didn't have to bring her up here drunk." "I warned you not to get involved with a woman like that." "She's broke. You bastard, you bought her whiskey, got her drunk and brought her up here." "I told you she was no good, Henry. I told you she was a bad woman." "Don't you love me anymore, lover boy?" "Get her out of here- NOW!" I told the old man. "No, no, I want you to see what kind of a woman you have." "I know what kind of woman I have. Now get her out of here now, or so help me Christ I'm going to pull this needle out of my arm and whip your ass!" The old man moved her out. I fell back on my pillow. "She's a looker," said Harry. "I know," I said, "I know." I stopped shitting blood and I was given a list of what to eat and I was told that the first drink would kill me. They had also told me that I would die without an operation. I had had a terrible argument with a female Japanese doctor about operation and death. I had said "No operation" and she had walked out, shaking her ass at me in anger. Harry was still alive when I left, nursing his cigarettes. I walked along in the sunlight to see how it felt. It felt all right. The traffic went by. The sidewalk was as sidewalks had always been. I was wondering whether to take a bus in or try to phone somebody to come and get me. I walked into this place to phone. I sat down first and had a smoke. The bartender walked up and I ordered a bottle of beer. "What's new?" he asked. "Nothing much," I said. He walked off. I poured the beer into a glass, then I looked at the glass a while and then I emptied half of it. Somebody put a coin in the juke box and we had some music. life looked a little better. I finished that glass, poured another and wondered if my pecker would ever stand up again. I looked around the bar: no women. I did the next best thing: I picked up the glass and drained it -charles bukowski - from the books: The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness === **BEER AND POETS AND TALK** it was a hell of a night. Willie had slept in the weeds outside Bakersfield the night before. Dutch was there, and a buddy, the beer was on me. I made sandwiches. Dutch kept talking about literature, poetry; I tried to get him off it but he laid right in there. Dutch runs a bookshop around Pasadena or Glendale or somewhere. then talk about the riots came up. they asked me what I thought about the riots and I told them that I was waiting, that the thoughts would have to come by themselves. it was nice to be able to wait. Willie picked up one of my cigars, took the paper off, lit it. Somebody said, "how come you're writing a column? you used to laugh at Lipton for writing a column, now you're doing the same thing." "Lipton writes a kind of left-wind Walter Winchell thing. I create Art. There's a difference." "hey, man, you got any ore of these green onions?" asked Willie. I went into the kitchen for more green onions and beer. Willie was one right out of the book---a book that hadn't been written yet. he was a mass of hair, head and beard. bluejeans with patches. one week he was in Frisco. 2 weeks later he was in Albuquerque. then, somewhere else. He carried with him, everywhere, this batch of poems he had accepted for his magazine. whether the crazy maga zine ever evolved or not was anybody's guess. Willie the Wire, slim, bouncy, immortal. he wrote very well. even when he put the knock on somebody it was a kind of without hatred knock. he just laid the statement down, then it was yours. a graceful carelessness. I cracked some new beers. Dutch was still on literature. he had just published "18th Dynasty Egyptian Automobile Turnon" by D. R. Wagner. and a nice job too. Dutch's young buddy just listened --- he was the new breed: quiet but very much there. Willie worked on an onion. "I talked to Neal Cassady. he's gone completely crazy." "yeah, he's begging for busts. it's stupid. building a forced myth. being in Kerouac's book screwed up his mind." "man," I said, "there's nothing like a bit of dirty literary gossip, is there?" "sure," said Dutch, "let's talk shop. everybody talks shop." "listen, Bukowski, do you think that there's any poetry being written now? by anybody? Lowell made time, you know." "almost all the great names have died recently --- Frost, cum- mings, Jeffers, W.C. Williams, T.S. Eliot, the rest. a couple of nights ago, Sandburg. in a very short period, they all seemed to die to- gether, throw in Vietnam and the ever-riots and it has been a very strange and quick and festering and new age. look at those skirts now, almost up around the ass. we are moving quickly and I like it, it is not bad. but the Establishment is worried about its culture. culture is a steadier. there's nothing as good as a museum, a Verdi opera or a stiff-neck poet to hold back progress. Lowell was rushed into the breach, after a careful check of credentials. Lowell is interesting enough not to put you to sleep but diffuse enough so as not to be dangerous. the first thoughts you have after reading his work is, this baby has never missed a meal or even had a flat tire or toothache. Creeley is a near similarity, and I imagine the Establish- ment balanced Creely and Lowell for some time but had to finally come up with Lowell because Creeley just didn't seem like such a very good dull guy, and you couldn't trust him as much --- he might even show up at the president's lawn party and tickle the guests with his beard, so, it had to be Lowell, and so it's Lowell we've got." "so who's writing it? where are they?" "not in America. and there are only 2 that I can think of. Harold Norse who is nursing his melancholia-hypochondria in Switz- erland, taking handouts from rich backers, and having the running shits, fainting spells, the fear of ants, so forth. and writing very little now, kind of going crazy like the rest of us. but then WHEN he writes, it's all there. the other guy is Al Purdy. not Al Purdy the novelist, I mean Al Purdy the poet. they are not the same people. Al Purdy lives in Canada and grows his own grapes which he squeezes Into his own wine. he is a drunk, an old hulk of a man who must now be somewhere in his mid-forties. his wife supports him so he can write his poetry, which, you've got to admit, is some wonderful kind of wife. I've never met one like that or have you. but, anyhow, the Canadian government is always laying some kind of grant on him, $4,000 here and there, and they send him up to the Pole to write about life there, and he does it, crazy clear poems about birds and people and dogs. god damn, he wrote a book of poems once called "Songs for All the Annettes" and I almost cried all the qay through the book reading it. it's nice to look up sometimes, it's nice to have heroes, it's nice to have somebody else carrying some of the load." "don't you think you write as well as they?" "only at times. most of the time, no." the beer ran out and I had to take a shit. I gave Willie a five and told him it'd be good if he got 2 six packs, tall, Schlitz (this is an advertisement), and all 3 of them left and I went in and sat down. it wasn't bad to be more or less asked questions of the age. it was better yet to be doing what I was doing. I thought about the hospi- tals, the racetracks, some of the women I used to know, some of the women I had buried, outdrunk, outfucked but not outargued. the lcoholic madwomen who had brought love to me especially and in their own way. then I heard it though the wall: "listen, Johnny, you ain't even kissed me in a week. what's wrong, Johnny? listen, talk to me, I want you to talk to me." "god damn you, get away from me. I don't want to talk to you. LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU? GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE!" "listen, Johnny, I just want you to talk to me, I can't stand it. you don't have to touch me, just talk to me, jesus christ Johnny I can't stand it, I CAN'T STAND IT, JESUS!" "GOD DAMN IT, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE, GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU?" "Johnny-" he hit her a good one, a real good one. open hand. I almost fell off the stool. I heard her choking the crap and walking off. then Dutch and Willie and crew were back. they ripped open the cans. I finished my business and walked back in. "I'm gonna get up an anthology," said Dutch, "an anthology of the best living poets, I mean the real best." "sure," said Willie, "why not?" then he saw me: "enjoy your crap?" "not too much." "no?" "no." "you need more roughage. you ought to eat more green onions." "you think so?" "yeah." I reached over and got 2 of them, jammed them down. maybe next time would be better. meanwhile there were riots, beer, talk, literature, and the lovely young ladies were making the fat million- aires happy. I reached over, got one of my own cigars, took off the paper, took off the cigar band, jammed the thing into my screwed- up and complex face, then lit it, the cigar. bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it. === **THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING** I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer, soft drink; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis driving 85 m.p.h., Roy's four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my '62 Comet, only I couldn't drive--- no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years, Hollis support- ing Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was explain- ing Hollis' family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intel- lectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing. Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement. Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A whole day's work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis turned off the freeway. It wasn't too far. Some of the rich have driveways a mile long. This one wasn't too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out. Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at- the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door---there he was, the rich one, standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, "Oh, Har- vey, you bastard, so good to see you!" Harvey smiled the little smile: "Good to see you too, Roy." One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. "Call your dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!" I screamed. "Aristotle, now STOP that!" Aristotle left off, just in time. And. We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove ass- holes. Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle- chewed leg. "Charles Bukowski-" I stood up. "Oh, Charles Bukowski!" "Uh huh." Then: "This is Marty." "Hello, Marty." "And this is Elsie." "Hello, Elsie." "Do you really, she asked, "break up furniture and windows, slash your hands, all that, when you're drunk?" "Uh huh." "You're a little old for that." "Now listen, Elsie, don't give me any shit-" "And this is Tina." "Hello, Tina." I sat down. Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one- half years. One night some people came in. I had told my wife: "This is Louie the half- ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half- hobble." Then I had turned to them and said, "This is my wife- this is my wife-this is-" I finally had to look at her and ask: "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?" "Barbara." "This is Barbara," I had told them- The Zen master hadn't arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer. Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis' family. Roy didn't seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life. I got another beer. They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, Dealers in various subterfuges, Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding presents. No neckties. I pushed further back into my corner. One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very power- ful looking things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet shaving towel over his face. Only they'd missed a few vital spots. There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Some- body else ran in shit through Chinese fishermen's boats via San Pedro Harbor. I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century. Me, I was between jobs. Then Harvey walked up. "Bukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?" "Sure, Harvey, sure." We walked toward the kitchen. "What's the necktie for?" "The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock." I think that you are the modern living master of the short story. Nobody touches you." "Sure, Harvey. Where's the scotch. "I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short stories." "But I've switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff." "What's the name of it?" "Damned if I can remember." I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water. "For the nerves," I told him. "You know?" "Sure, Bukowski." I drank it straight down. "How about a refill?" "Sure." I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner. Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED! The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very narrow. Or maybe that's the way they were. The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables. Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my drink, went in for a refill. Came back. A golden-haired kid ran in. About eleven years old. "Bukowski, I've read some of your stories. I think that you are the greatest writer I have ever read!" Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body. "Okay, baby. You get old enough. We'll get married. Live off of your money. I'm getting tired. You an just parade me around in a kind of glass cage with little airholes in it. I'll let the young boys have you. I'll even watch." "Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I'm a girl! My name is Paul! We were introduced! Don't you remember?" Paul's father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. maybe even a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever. But the little boy was all right: "That's okay, Bukowski! You are still the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your stories-" Then all the lights went out. That's what the kid deserved for his big mouth- But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles, walking around finding candles and lighting them. "Shit, it's just a fuse. Replace the fuse," I said. Somebody said it wasn't the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there. "Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter-" "Paul." "Sorry. The Biblical." "I understand." (The rich understand; they just don't do anything about it.) Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev, Gogel. All that dull shit. Then there were candles every-where. The Zen master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt. They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn't any good. He had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn't done too often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle- lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had com- municated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk --- unreliable --- either faint-hearted or vicious ---therefore, during the ceremony, don't ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski. So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little black book. It didn't look too thick. Around 150 pages, I'd say. "I ask," said the Zen, "no drinking or smoking during the ceremony." I drained my drink. I stood to Roy's right. Drinks were being drained all over the place. Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile. I knew Christian wedding ceremonies by the sad note of experience. And the Zen ceremony actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole box of the things --- two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick was places in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis asked to place hers on the other. But the sticks weren't quite right. The Zen master, smiling a bit, had to reach forward and adjust the sticks to new depths and elevations. Then the Zen master dug out a circle of brown beads. He handed the circle of beads to Roy. "Now?" asked Roy. Damn, I thought, Roy always read up on everything else. Why not his own wedding? Zen reached forward, placed Hollis' right hand within Roy's left. And the beads encircled both hands that way. "Do you-" "I do-" (This was Zen? I thought.) "And do you, Hollis-" "I do-" Meanwhile, in the candlelight, there was some asshole taking hundreds of photos of the ceremony. It made me nervous. It could have been the F.B.I. "Plick! Plick! Plick!" Of course, we were all clean. But it was irritating because it was careless. Then I noticed the Zen master's ears in the candlelight. The candlelight shone through them as if they were made of the thinnest of toilet paper. The Zen master had the thinnest ears of any man I had ever seen. That was what made him holy! I had to have those ears! For my wallet or my tomcat or my memory. Or for under the pillow. Of course, I knew that it was all the scotch and water and all the beer talking to me, and then, in another way, I didn't know that at all. I kept staring at the Zen master's ears. And there were more words. "-and you Roy, promise not to take any drugs while in your relationship with Hollis?" There seemed to be an embarrassing pause. Then, their hands locked together in the brown beads: "I promise," said Roy, "not to-" Soon it was over. Or seemed over. The Zen master stood straight up, smiling just a touch of a smile. I touched Roy upon a shoulder: "Congratulations." Then I leaned over. Took hold of Hollis' head, kissed her beautiful lips. Still everybody sat there. A nation of subnormals. Nobody moved. The candles glowed like subnormal candles. I walked over to the Zen master. Shook his hand: "Thank you. you did the ceremony quite well." He seemed really pleased, which made me feel a little better. but the rest of those gangsters --- old Tammany Hall and the Mafia: they were too proud and stupid to shake hands with an Oriental. Only one other kissed Hollis. Only one other shook the hand of the Zen master. It could have been a shotgun wedding. All that family! Well, I'd be the last to know or the last to be told. Now that the wedding was over, it seemed very cold in there. They just sat and stared at each other. I could never comprehend the human race, but somebody had to play clown. I ripped off my green necktie, flipped it into the air: "HEY! YOU COCKSUCKERS! ISN'T ANYBODY HUN- GRY?" I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs' feet and chicken cunt. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food, not knowing what else to do. I got them to nibbling. Then I left and hit for the scotch and water. As I was in the kitchen, refilling, I heard the Zen master say, "I must leave now." "Oooh, don't leave-" I heard an old, squeaky and female voice from among the greatest gangland gathering in three years. And even she didn't sound as if she meant it. What was I doing in with these? Or the UCLA prof? No, the UCLA prof belonged there. There must be a repentance. Or something. Some action to humanize the proceedings. As soon as I heard the Zen master close the front door, I drained my waterglass full of scotch. Then I ran out through the candlelit room of jabbering bastards, found the door (that was a job, for a moment), and I opened the door, closed it, and there I was- about 15 steps behind Mr. Zen. We still had 45 or 50 steps to go to get down to the parking lot. I gained upon him, lurching, two steps to his one. I screamed: "Hey, Masta!" Zen turned. "Yes, old man?" Old man? We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer relationship. Then I told him: "I either want bother your motherfucking ears or your motherfucking outfit --- that neon-lighted bathrobe you're wearing!" "old man, you are crazy!" "I thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand statements. You disappoint me, Masta!" Zen placed his palms together and looked upward. I told him, "I either want you motherfucking outfit or your motherfucking ears!" He kept his palms together, while looking upward. I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying for- ward, which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him, I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without direction. Zen caught me and straightened me. "My son, my son-" We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss. He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants --- splattered with blood, candle-drippings and puke. "You've met you master, bastard!" I notified him as I moved toward him. He waited. The years of working as a factotum had not left muscles entirely lax. I gave him one deeply into the gut, all 230 pounds of my body behind it. Zen let out a short gasp, once again supplicated the sky, said something in the Oriental, gave me a short karate chop, kindly, and left me wrapped within a series of senseless Mexican cacti and what appeared to be, from my eye, man-eating plants from the inner Brazilian jungles. I relaxed in the moonlight until this purple flower seemed to gather toward my nose and began to delicately pinch out my breathing. Shit, it took at least 150 years to break into the Harvard Classics. There wasn't any choice: I broke loose from the thing and started crawling up the stairway again. Near the top, I mounted to my feet, opened the door and entered. Nobody noticed me. They were still talking shit. I flopped into my corner. The karate shot had opened a cut over my left eyebrow. I found my handkerchief. "Shit! I need a drink!" I hollered. Harvey came up with one. All scotch. I drained it. Why was it that the buzz of human beings talking could be so senseless? I no- ticed the woman who had been introduced to me as the bride's mother was now showing plenty of leg, and it didn't look bad, all that long nylon with the expensive stiletto heels, plus the little jewel tips down near the toes. It could give an idiot the hots, and I was only half-idiot. I got up, walked over to the bride's mother, ripped her skirt back to her thighs, kissed her quickly upon her pretty knees and began to kiss my way upward. The candlelight helped. Everything. "Hey!" she awakened suddenly, "whatcha think you're do- ing?" "I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, I am going to fuck you until the shit falls outa your ass! Whatch thinka that?" She pushed and I fell backwards upon the rug. Then I was flat upon my back, thrashing, trying to get up. "Damned Amazon!" I screamed at her. Finally, three or four minutes later I managed to get to my feet. Somebody laughed. The, finding my feet flat upon the floor again, I made for the kitchen. Poured a drink, drained it. Then poured a refill and walked out. There they were: all the goddamned relatives. "Roy or Hollis?" I asked. "Why don't you open your wedding gift?" "Sure," said Roy, "why not?" The gift was wrapped in 45 yards of tinfoil. Roy just kept unrolling the foil Finally, he got it all undone. "Happy marriage!" I shouted. They all saw it. The room was very quiet. It was a little handcrafted coffin done by the best artisans in Spain. It even had the pinkish-red felt bottom. It was the exact replica of a larger coffin, except perhaps it was done with more love. Roy gave me his killer's look, ripped off the tag of instructions on how to keep the wood polished, threw it inside the coffin and closed the lid. It was very quiet. The only gift hadn't gone over. But they soon gathered themselves and began talking shit again. I became silent. I had really been proud of my little casket. I had looked for hours for a gift. I had almost gone crazy. Then I had seen it on the shelf, all alone. Touched the outsides, turned it up- side-down, then looked inside. The price was height but I was paying for the perfect craftsmanship. The wood. The little hinges. All. At the same time, I needed some ant-killer spray. I found some Black Flag in the back of the store. The ants had built a nest under my front door. I took the stuff to the counter. There was a young girl there, I set the stuff in front of her. I pointed to the casket. "You know what that is?" "What?" "That's a casket!" I opened it up and showed it to her. "These ants are driving me crazy. Ya know what I'm going to do?" "What?" "I'm going to kill all those ants and put them in this casket and bury them!" She laughed. "You've saved my whole day!" You can't put it past the young ones anymore; they are an entirely superior breed. I paid and got out of there- But now, at the wedding, nobody laughed. A pressure cooker done up with a red ribbon would have left them happy. Or would it have? Harvey, the rich one, finally, was kindest of all. Maybe because he could afford to be kind? Then I remembered something out of my readings, something from the ancient Chinese: "Would you rather be rich or an artist?" "I'd rather be rich, for it seems that the artist is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich." I sucked at the fifth and didn't care anymore. Somehow, the next thing I knew, it was over. I was in the back seat of my own car, Hollis driving again, the beard of Roy flowing into my face again. I sucked at my fifth. "Look, did you guys throw my little casket away? I love you both, you know that! Why did you throw my little casket away?" "Look, Bukowski! Here's your casket!" Roy held it up to me, showed it to me. "Ah, fine!" "You want it back?" "No! No! My gift to you! Your only gift! Keep it! Please!" "All right." The remainder of the drive was fairly quiet. I lived in a front court near Hollywood (of course). Parking was mean. Then they found a space about a half a block from where I lived. They parked my car, handed me the keys. Then I saw them walk across the street toward their own car. I watched them, turned to walk toward my place, and while still watching them and holding to the remainder of Harvey's fifth, I tripped one shoe into a pantscuff and went down. As I fell backwards, my first instinct was to protect the remainder of that good fifth from smashing against the cement (mother with baby), and as I fell backwards I tried to hit with my shoulders, holding both head and bottle up. I saved the bottle but the head flipped back into the sidewalk, BASH! They both stood and watched me fall. I was stunned almost into insensibility but managed to scream across the street at them: "Roy! Hollis! Help me to my front door, please I'm hurt!" They stood a moment, looking at me. Then they got into their car, started the engine, leaned back and neatly drove off. I was being repaid for something. The casket? Whatever it had been --- the use of my car, or me as clown and/or best man-my use had been outworn. The human race had always disgusted me. essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which neighborhood, your district, your city, your county, your state, your nation-everybody grabbing each other's assholes in the Honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity. I got it all there, I understood it as they left me there, pleading. Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes without being bothered I'll get up and make it toward my place, get inside. I was the last of the outlaws. Billy the Kid had nothing on me. Five more minutes. Just let me get to my cave. I'll mend. Next time I'm asked to one of their functions, I'll tell them where to put it. Five minutes. That's all I need. Two women walked by. They turned and looked at me. "Oh, look at him. What's wrong?" "He's drunk." "He's not sick, is he?" "No, look how he holds to that bottle. Like a little baby." Oh shit. I screamed up at them: "I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES! I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES DRY, YOU CUNTS!" "Ooooooh!" They both ran into the high-rise glass apartment. Through the glass door. And I was outside unable to get up, best man to some- thing. All I had to do was make it to my place --- 30 yards away, as close as three million light years. Thirty yards from a rented front door. Tow more minutes and I could get up. Each time I tried it, I got stronger. An old drunk would always make it, given enough time. One minute. One minute more. I could have made it. Then there they were. Part of the insane family structure of the World. Madmen, really, hardly questioning what made them do what they did. They left their double-red light burning as they parked. Then got out. One had a flashlight. "Bukowski," said the one with the flashlight, "you just can't seem to keep out of trouble, can you?" He knew my name from somewhere, other times. "Look," I said, "I just stumbled. Hit my head. I never lose my sense of my coherence. I'm not dangerous. Why don't you guys help me to my doorway? It's 30 yards away. Just let me fall upon my bed and sleep it off. Don't you think, really, that would be the really decent thing to do?" "Sir, two ladies reported you as trying to rape them." "Gentlemen, I would never attempt to rape two ladies at the same time." The one cop kept flashing his stupid flashlight into my face. It gave him a great feeling of superiority. "Just 30 yards to Freedom! Can't you guys understand that?" "You're the funniest show in town, Bukowski! Give us a better alibi than that." "Well, let's see - this thing you see sprawled here on the pavement is the end-product of a wedding, a Zen wedding." "You mean some woman really tried to marry you?" "Not me, you asshole-" The cop with the flashlight brought it down across my nose. "We ask respect toward officers of the law." "Sorry. For a moment I forgot." The blood ran down along my throat and then toward and upon my shirt. I was very tired - of everything. "Bukowski," asked the one who had just used the flashlight, "why can't you stay out of trouble?" "Just forget the horseshit," I said, "let's go off to jail." They put on the cuffs and threw me into the back seat. Same sad old scene. They drove along slowly, speaking of various possible and in- sane things - like, about having the front porch widened, or a pool, or an extra room in the back for Granny. And when it came to sports - these were real men - the Dodgers still had a chance, even with the two or three other teams right in there with them. Back to the family - if the Dodgers won, they won. If a man landed on the moon, they landed on the moon. But let a starving man ask them a dime - no identification, fuck you, shithead. I mean, when they were in civvies. There hasn't been a starving man yet who ever asked a cop for a dime. Our record is clear. Then I was, once again, in this type of long line of the some- how guilty. The young guys didn't know what was coming. They were mixed up with this thing called THE CONSTITUTION and their RIGHTS. The young cops, both in the city tank and the coun- ty tank, got their training on the drunks. They had to show they had it. While I was watching they took one guy in an elevator and rode him up and down, up and down, and when he got out, you hardly knew who he was, or what he had been - a black screaming about Human Rights. Then they got a white guy, screaming something about CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS; four or five of them got him, and they rushed him off his feet so fast he couldn't walk, and when they brought him back they leaned him against a wall, and he just stood there trembling, these red welts all over his body, he stood there trembling and shivering. I got my photo taken all over again. Fingerprinted all over again. They took me down to the drunk tank, opened that door. After that, it was just a matter of looking for floorspace among the 150 men in the room. One shitpot. Vomit and piss everywhere. I found a spot among my fellow men. I was Charles Bukowski, fea- tured in the literary archives of the University of California at Santa Barbara. Somebdy there thought I was a genius. I stretched out on the boards. Heard a young voice. A boy's voice. "Mista, I'll suck your dick for a quarter!" They were supposed to take all your change, bills, ident, keys, knives, so forth, plus cigarettes, and then you had the property slip. Which you either lost or sold or had stolen from you. But there was always still money and cigarettes about. "Sorry, lad," I told him, "They took my last penny." Four hours later I managed to sleep. There. Best man at a Zen wedding, and I'd bet they, the bride and groom, hadn't even fucked that night. But somebody had been. === **AN EVIL TOWN** Frank walked down the steps. He didn't like elevators. He didn't like many things. He disliked steps less than he disliked elevators. The desk clerk called to him: "Mr. Evans! Would you step over here, please?" The desk clerk's face looked like cornmeal mush. It was all Frank could do to keep from hitting him. The desk clerk looked about the lobby, then leaned very close. "Mr. Evans, we've been watching you." The desk clerk again looked about the lobby, saw that there wasn't anybody near, then leaned forward again. "Mr. Evans, we've been watching you and we believe that you're losing your mind." The desk clerk leaned back then and looked right at Frank. "I feel like going to a movie," said Frank. "You know of any good movies in town? "Let's stick to the subject, Mr. Evans." "O.k., I'm losing my mind. Anything else?" The clerk reached under the counter and came up with some- thing wrapped in cellophane. "Here it is, Mr. Evans." Frank dropped it in his coat pocket and walked outside. It was a cool autumn night and he walked down the street, west. He stopped at the first alley, stepped in. He reached into his coat and got the wrapped-up thing, peeled the cellophane off. It looked like cheese. It smelled like cheese. He took a bite. It tasted like cheese. He ate it all, then stepped out of the alley and walked down the street again. He turned into the first movie house he saw, bought his ticket and walked into the darkness. He took a seat in the back. There weren't many people in there. The whole place smelled like urine. The women on the screen dressed as they did in the '20's and the men wore vaseline on their hair, combed it back hard and straight. Their noses seemed very long and the men also seemed to have mascara under their eyes. It wasn't even a talkie. Words showed under the film: BLANCHE WAS NEW IN THE BIG CITY. A guy with straight greasy hair was making Blanche drink from a bottle of gin. Blanche appeared to be getting drunk. BLANCHE GREW DIZZY. SUDDENLY HE KISSED HER. Frank looked around. Everywhere heads seemed to be bob- bing. There weren't any women in the place. The guys seemed to be sucking each other off. They went at it and at it. They never seemed to get tired. The men sitting alone seemed to be jacking-off. The cheese had been good. He wished the clerk had given him more cheese. HE BEGAN TO DISROBE BLANCHE. And every time he looked around this guy was getting nearer to him. Then when Frank looked back at the movie the guy would move 2 or 3 seats nearer to him. HE MADE LOVE TO BLANCHE WHILE SHE WAS HELP- LESSLY INTOXICATED. He looked again. The guy was 3 seats away. Breathing heavily. Then the guy was in the seat next to him. "Oh shit," the guy said, "O, mys shit, ooo,ooo,oooo. ah, ah! eeeyew! oh!" WHEN BLANCHE AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING SHE REALIZED THAT SHE HAD BEEN RAVISHED. The guy smelled as if he had never wiped his ass. The guy was leaning toward him, bits of spit drooling from the sides of his mouth. Frank hit the button of the switchblade: "Careful!" he told the guy. "You get any closer you might hurt yourself on this!" "Oh, my god!" said the guy. He got up and ran down the row of seats to the aisle, then walked quickly down the aisle to the front row. Two guys were at it. One guy was jacking-off the other guy as the guy went down on him. The guy who had been bothering Frank sat there and watched them. SOON AFTER, BLANCHE WAS IN A HOUSE OF PROSTI- TUTION. Then Frank had to urinate. He got up and walked toward the sign: MEN. He went in. It really stank in there. He gagged, opened the toilet door, went in. He took out his penis and started to piss. Then he heard some sounds. "Ooooh ooooh, you filthy fuck!" said the guy. "ooh you beasly fiendish piece of shit!" He heard the guy ripping off toilet paper and wiping his face. Then the guy began to cry. Frank stepped out of the toilet, washed his hands. He didn't want to see any more of the movie. Then he was out on the street, walking back toward his hotel. Then he was in the lobby. The desk clerk nodded him over. "Yeah?" asked Frank. "Look, Mr. Evans, I'm sorry. I was just kidding you." "About what?" "You know." "No, I don't know." "Well, about losing your mind. I've been drinking, you know. Don't tell anybody or I'll lose my job. But I've been drinking. I know that you're not losing your mind. I was just joking." "But I am losing my mind," said Frank, "and thanks for the cheese." Then he turned and walked up the stairway. When he got to his room he sat down at the writing desk. He took out the switch- blade, hit the button, looked at the knifeblade. It was well sharp- ened down one entire side. It could stab or slice. He hit the button and put the knife back in his pocket. Then Frank found pen and paper and began to write: "Dear Mother: This is an evil town. The Devil is in control. Sex is everywhere and it is not being used as an instrument of Beauty as God meant it to be, but as an instrument of Evil. Yes, it has most certainly fallen into the devil's hands, into Evil hands. Young girls are forced to drink gin, then they are deflowered by these beasts and forced into houses of prostitution. It is terrible. It is unbelievable. My heart is torn. I walked along the shore yesterday. Not along the shore, real- ly, but up along on top of cliffs and then I stopped and sat there while breathing in the Beauty. The sea, the sky, the sand. Life be- came the Eternal Bliss. Then a most miraculous thing happened. 3 small squirrels saw me from way down below and they began to climb the cliffs. I saw their little faces peeking at me from behind rocks and crevices in the cliffs as they climbed toward me. Finally they were at my feet. Their eyes looked at me. Never, Mother, have I seen more beautiful eyes - undiluted by Sin: the whole sky, the whole sea, Eternity was in those eyes. Finally I moved and they-" There was a knock on the door. Frank got up, walked over, opened it. It was the desk clerk. "Mr. Evans, please, I must speak to you." "All right, come in." The desk clerk closed the door and stood in front of Frank. The desk clerk smelled like wine. "Mr. Evans, please don't tell management about our misunder- standing." "I don't know what you're talking about." "You're a great guy, Mr. Evans. You know, I've been drink- ing." "You are forgiven. Now go." "Mr. Evans, there's something I've got to tell you." "Very well. What is it?" "I'm in love with you, Mr. Evans." "Oh, you mean my spirit, eh, my boy?" "No, your body, Mr. Evans." "What?" "Your body, Mr. Evans. Please don't be offended, but I want you to ream me!" "REAM ME, Mr. Evans! I've been reamed by half the United States Navy! Those boys know what's good, Mr. Evans. There's nothing like a bit of clean round-eye!" "You will leave my room immediately!" The desk clerk threw his arms about Frank's neck, then his mouth was on Frank's mouth. The desk clerk's mouth was very wet and cold, it stank. Frank pushed him away. "You rotten bastard! YOU KISSED ME!" "I love you, Mr. Evans!" "You filthy swine!" Frank had the knife, hit the button, the blade jumped out and he stuck it into the desk clerk's stomach. Then pulled it out. "Mr. Evans- my god-" The clerk fell to the floor. He was holding both hands over the wound trying to stop the blood. "You bastard! YOU KISSED ME!" Frank reached down and unzipped the desk clerk's fly. Then he got the clerk's penis, pulled it straight up toward him and sliced it off three- quarters of the way down. "Oh, my god my god my god my god-" said the clerk. Frank walked to the bathroom, took the thing and threw it into the toilet. Then he flushed the toilet. Then he washed his hands very well with soap and water. He came out, sat down to the disk again. He picked up the pen. "-ran away but I had seen Eternity. Mother, I must move from this city, from this hotel - the Devil is in control of almost all the bodies. I will write you again from the next city - perhaps San Francisco, Portland or Seattle. I feel like moving north. I think of you continually and hope that you are happy and in good health, and may the Lord be with you always. love, your son, Frank" He wrote the address on the envelope, sealed it, added stamp and then walked over and put it in the inside pocket of his coat which was hanging in the closet. Then he took a suitcase from the closet, put it on the bed, opened it and began to pack. === TWELVE FLYING MONKEYS WHO WON'T COPULATE PROPERLY The bell rings and I open the side window by the door. It is night. "Who is it?" I ask. Somebody walks up to the window but I can't see the face. I have two lights over the typewriter. I slam the window but there is talking out there. I sit down to the typewriter but there is still talking out there. I get up and rip open the door and scream: "I TOLD YOU COCKSUCKERS NOT TO BOTHER ME!" I look around and there is one guy standing on the bottom of the steps and another guy standing on the porch, pissing; He is pissing into a bush to the left of the porch, standing on the edge of the porch, his piss arching in a heavy swath, upward and then down into the bush. "Hey, this guy is pissing into my bush," I say. the guy laughs and keeps pissing. I grab him by the pants, pick him up and throw him, still pissing, over the top of the bush and into the night. He doesn't return. The other guy says, "What did you do that for?" "I felt like it." "Drunk?" I ask. He walks around the corner and is gone. I close the door and sit down to the typer again. All right, I have this mad scientist, he's taught monkeys to fly, he's got eleven monkey's with these wings. The monkeys are very good. The scientist has even taught them to race. Race around these pylons, yes. Now let's see. Gotta make it good. To get rid of a story you gotta have fucking, lots of it, if possible. Better make it twelve monkeys, six male and six of the other kind. All right now. Here they go. There they go around the first pylon. How am I going to get them to fucking? I haven't sold a story in two months. I should have stayed in the goddamned post office. All right. There they go. Around the first pylon. Maybe they just fly off. Suddenly. How about that? They fly to Washington, D.C. and hang around the Capitol dropping turds on the public, pissing on them, smearing their turds across the White House. Can I have one drop a turd on the President? No, that's asking too much. Okay, make it a turd on the Secretary of State. Orders are given to shoot them out of the sky. That's tragic, isn't it? But what about the fucking? All right. All right. Work it in. Let's see. Okay, ten of them are shot out of the sky, poor little things. There are only two others. A male and one other kind. They can't seem to be found. Then a cop is walking through the park one night, and there they are, the last two of them, wings strapped on, fucking like the devil. The cop walks up. The male hears, turns his head, looks up, gives a silly little monkey-grin, never missing a stroke, then turns his head and goes back to banging. The cop blows his head off. The monkey's head, that is. The female flips the male off in disgust and stands up. For a monkey, she is a pretty little thing. For a moment the cop thinks of, thinks of - But no, it would be too tight, maybe, and she might bite, maybe. While he's thinking this, the bullet, she falls. He runs up. She is wounded but not dead. The cop looks around, lifts her up, takes it out, tries to work it in. No good. Just room for the head. Shit. He drops her to the ground, puts his gun to her brain and B A M! it's over. The bell rings again. I open the door. Three guys walk in. Always these guys. A woman never pisses on my porch, a woman hardly ever comes by. How am I going to get any sex ideas? I have almost forgotten how to do it. But they say it's like riding a bicycle, you never forget. It's better than riding a bi- cycle. It's Crazy Jack and two guys I don't know. "Look, Jack," I say, "I thought I was rid of you." Jack just sits down. The other two guys sit down. Jack has promised me never to come by again but he is on the wine most of the time, so promises don't mean much. He lives with his mother and pretends to be a painter. I know four or five guys living with or supported by their mother, and the guys pretend to genius. And all the mothers are alike: "Oh, Nelson has a painting hanging at the Warner-Finch Galleries this week. His genius is being recognized at last! He's asking $4,000 for the work. Do you think that's too much?" Nelson, Jack, Biddy, Norman, Jimmy and Ketya, Fuck. Jack has on blue jeans, is barefooted, no shirt, undershirt, just a brown shawl thrown over him. One guy has a beard and grins and blushes continually. The other guy is just fat. Some kind of leech. "Have you seen Borst lately?" Jack asks. "No." "Let me have one of your beers." "No. You guys come around, drink all my shit, split and leave me on a dry shore." "All right." He leaps up, runs out and gets his wine bottle which he has hidden under the cushion on the porch chair. He comes back, takes off the lid, takes a suck. "I was down at Venice with this chick and one hundred rain- bows. I thought I spotted the heat and I ran up to Borst's place with this chick and the hundred rainbows. I knocked on the door and told him, "Quick, let me in! I've got one hundred rainbows and the heat is right behind me!" Borst closed the door, I kicked it in and ran in with the chick. Borst was on the floor, jacking off some guy. I ran into the bathroom with the chick and locked the door. Borst knocked. I said, "Don't you dare come in here!" I stayed in there with the chick for about an hour. We knocked off two pieces of ass to amuse ourselves. Then we came out." "Did you dump the rainbows?" "Hell no, it was a false alarm. But Borst was very angry." "Shit," I say, "Borst hasn't written a decent poem since 1955. His mother supports him. Pardon me. But I mean, all he does is look at TV, eat these delicate little celeries and greens and jog along the beach in his dirty underwear. He used to be a fine poet when he was living with those young boys in Arabia. But I can't sympathize. A winner goes wire to wire. It's like Huxley said, Aldous, that is, 'Any man can be a-'" "How you doing?" Jack asks. "Nothing but rejects," I say. The one guy begins playing the flute. The leech just sits there Jack lifts his wine bottle. It is a beautiful night in Hollywood, Cali- fornia. Then the guy who lives in the court behind me falls out of bed, drunk. It makes quite a sound. I'm used to it. I'm used to the whole court. All of them sit in their places, shades drawn. They get up at noon. Their cars sit out front dust-covered, tires going down, batteries weakening. They mix drink with dope and have no visible means of support. I like them. They don't bother me. The guy gets into bed again, falls out. "You silly damn fool," you hear him say, "get back into that bed." "What's all that noise?" Jack asks. "Guy behind me. He's very lonely. Drinks a beer now and then. His mother died last year and left him twenty grand. He sits around and masturbates and looks at baseball games and cowboy shootums on TV. Used to be a gas station attendant. "We've got to split." says Jack, "want to come with us?" "No," I say. They explain that it is something to do with the House of Seven Gables. They are going to see somebody who had something to do with the House of Seven Gables. It isn't the writer, the produc- er, the actors, it is somebody else. "Well, no," I say, and they all run out. It is a beautiful sight. Then I sit down to the monkeys again. Maybe I can juggle those monkeys up. If I can get all twelve of them fucking at once! That's it! But how? And why? Check the Royal Ballet of London. But why? I'm going crazy. Okay, the Royal Ballet of London has this idea. Twelve monkeys flying while they ballet. Only before the performance somebody gives them all the Spanish Fly. Not the bal- let. The monkeys. But the Spanish Fly is a myth, isn't it? Okay, enter another mad scientist with a real Spanish Fly! No, no, oh my God, I just can't get it right! The phone rings. I pick it up. It's Borst: "Hello, Hank?" "Yeah?" "I have to keep it short. I'm broke." "Yes, Jerry." "Well, I lost my two sponsors. The stock market and the tight dollar." "Uh huh." "Well, I always knew it was going to happen. So I'm getting out of Venice. I can't make it here. I'm going to New York City." "What?" "I thought that's what you said." "Well, I'm broke you see, and I think I can really make it there." "Sure, Jerry." "Losing my sponsors is the best thing that ever happened to me." "Really?" "Now I feel like fighting again. You've heard about people rotting along the beach. Well, that's what I've been doing down here: rotting. I've got to get out of here. And I'm not worried. Except for the trunks." "I can't seem to get them packed. So my mother's coming back here." "All right, Jerry." "But before I go to New York I'm going to stop off at Switzer- land and perhaps Greece. Then I'm coming back to New York." "All right, Jerry, keep in touch. Always good to hear." Then I am back to the monkeys again. Twelve monkeys who can fly, fucking. How can it be done? Twelve bottles of beer are gone. I find my reserve half-pint of scotch in the refrigerator. I mix one-third glass scotch with two-thirds water. I should have stayed in the goddamned post office. But even here, like this, you have a minor chance. Just get those twelve monkey's fucking. If you'd been born a camel boy in Arabia you wouldn't even have this chance. So get your back up and get those monkeys at it. You've been blessed with a minor talent and you're not in India where probably two dozen boys could write you under if they knew how to write. Well, maybe not two dozen, maybe just a round dozen. I finish the half-pint, drink half bottle of wine, go to bed, forget it. The next morning at nine a.m. the doorbell rings. There is a young black girl standing there with a stupid-looking white guy in rimless glasses. They tell me that I have made a promise to go boat- ing with them at a party three nights ago. I get dressed, get into the car with them. They drive to an apartment and a black-haired kid met him at a party. He passes out little orange life-belts. Next I know we're down at the pier. I can't tell the pier from the water. They help me down a swinging wooden contraption that leads to a floating dock. The bottom of the contraption and the dock are about three feet apart. They help me down. "What the fuck is this?" I ask. "Does anybody have a drink?" I am with the wrong people. Nobody has a drink. Then I am in a small rowboat, rented, and somebody has attached a half-horse- power motor. The bottom of the boat is filled with water and two dead fish. I don't know who the people are. They know me. Fine, fine. We head out to sea. I vomit. We pass a suckerfish wrapped around a flying monkey. No, that's terrible. I vomit again. "How's the great writer?" asks the stupid-looking guy in the prow of the boat, the guy with the rimless galsses. "What a great writer?" asks the stupid-looking guy in the prow of the boat, the guy with the rimless glasses. "What great writer?" I ask, thinking he is talking about Rim- baud, although I never thought Rimbaud a great writer. "You," he says. "Me?" I say, "Oh, fine. Think I'm going to Greece next year." "Grease?" he says. "You mean up your ass?" "No," I answer, "up yours." We head out to sea where Conrad made it. To hell with Con- rad. I'll take coke with bourbon in a dark bedroom in Hollywood in 1970, or whatever year you read this. The year of the monkey-orgy that never happened. The motor flits and gnashes at the sea; we plunge on toward Ireland. No, it's the Pacific. We plunge on toward Japan. To hell with it. === 10 jackoffs old Sanchez is a genius but I am the only one who knows it and it's always good to go see him. there are very few people I can stay in a room with more than 5 minutes without feeling gutted. Sanchez passes my tests, and I am very test, hehehehe, oh my god, anyhow, I go to see him now and then in his hand-built two story shack. he installed his own plumbing, has a free-feed line from a high-power voltage line, has connected himself up a telephone which feeds underground from a neighbor's installation, but he explains to me that he cannot call long distance or out of the city without exposing his sycophancy. he even lives with a young woman who says very little, paints, walks about looking sexy and makes love to him and him to her, of course. he bought the ground for very little and although the place is some distance from Los Angeles, you might call this an advantage. he sits among wires, popular mechanics magazines, tape recording sets, shelves and shelves of books on all subjects. he is concise, never rude; he is humorous and magic, he writes very well but is not interested in fame, once in a great while he will come out from his cave and read his poetry at some university, and it is said that the walls and the ivy tremble and shake for weeks afterwards along with the co-eds, he has taped 10,000 tapes of con- versation, sounds, music-dull and undull, usual and otherwise. the walls are covered with photos, advertisements, drawings, hunks of rock, snake skins, skulls, dried rubbers, soot, silver and spots of golddust. "I'm afraid I'm cracking," I tell him, "eleven years on the same job, the hours dragging over me like wet shit, wow, and all the faces melted down to zeros, yapping, laughing at nothing. I'm no snob, Sanchez, but sometimes it gets to be a real horror show and the only end is death or madness." "sanity is an imperfection," he says, dropping a couple of pills into his mouth. "jesus, I mean, I'm taught at several universities, some prof is writing a book on me- I've been translated into several lan- guages-" "we all have. you're getting old, Bukowski, you're weakening. keep your moxie. Victory or Death." "Adolph." "Adolph." "large gamble, large loss." "right, or invert it for the common man." "well, fuck." "yeah." "it gets quiet for a while, then he says, "you can come live with us." "thanks, sure, man. but I think I'll try a little more moxie first." "your game." "Over his head is a black sign upon which he has pasted in white type: "A BOY HAS NEVER WEPT, NOR DASHED A THOUSAND KIM." -Dutch Schultz, on his deathbed. WITH ME, GRAND OPERA IS THE BERRIES." -Al Capone "NE CRAIGNEZ POINT, MONSIEUR, LE TORTURE." -Leibnetz. "THERE IS NO MORE." -Motto of Sitting Bull "THE POLICEMAN'S CLIENT IS THE ELECTRIC CHAIR." -George Jessel. "FAST AND LOOSE IN ONE THING, FAST AND LOOSE IN EVERYTHING. I NEVER KNEW IT FAIR. NO MORE WILL YOU, NOR NO ONE. -Detective Bucket. "AMEN IS THE INFLUENCE OF NUMBERS." -Pico Della Mirandola, in his kabbalistic conclusions "SUCCESS AS THE RESULT OF INDUSTRY IS A PEAS- ANT IDEAL." -Wallace Stevens "TO ME, MY SHIT STINKS BETTER EXCEPT THAN A DOG'S." -Charles Bukowski. "NOW THE PORNOGRAPHERS WERE ASSEMBLED WITH IN THE CREMATORIUM." -Anthony Bloomfield. "ADAGE OF SPONTANEITY - THE BACHELOR GRINDS HIS CHOCOLATE HIMSELF." -Marcel Duchamp. "KISS THE HAND YOU CANNOT SEVER." -Taureg saying. "WE ALL, IN OUR DAY, WERE SMART FELLOWS." -Admiral St. Vincent. "MY DREAM IS TO SAVE THEM FROM NATURE." -Christian Dior. "OPEN SESAME - I WANT OUT." -Stanislas Jerzy Lec. "A YARDSTICK DOES NOT SAY THAT THE OBJECT TO BE MEASURED IS ONE YARD LONG." -Ludwig Wittgenstein. I am a bit gone on beer. "Say, I like that last one: "the object to be murdered does not have to be a yard long." "I think that's even better but it's not what is said." "all right. how's Kaakaa? that's baby-language for shit, and a more sexy woman I've never seen. "I know. and it started with Kafka. she used to like Kafka and I called her that. then she changed it herself." he gets up and walks to a photo. "come 'ere, Bukowski." I flip my beercan into the trashcan and walk on over. "what's this?" asks Sanchez. I look at the photo. it is a very good photo. "well, it looks like a cock." "what kind of cock?" " a stiff cock, a big one." "it's mine." "so?" "don't you notice?" "what?" "the sperm." "yes, I see it. I didn't want to say-" "why not? what the hell's wrong with you?" "I don't understand." "I mean, do you see the sperm or don't you?" "what do you mean?" "I mean, I'm JACKING OFF, can't you understand how hard that is to do?" "it's not hard, Sanchez, I do it all the time-" "oh, you ox! I mean I had the camera rigged-up with a string. Do you realize what an enactment it was to remain quietly in focus, ejaculate and trigger the camera at the same time?" "I don't use a camera." "how many men do? you miss the point, as usual. who the hell you are translated into the German, the Spanish, the French and so forth, I'll never know! look, do you realize that it took me THREE DAYS to make this SIMPLE photograph? do you know how many times I had to JACKOFF?" "4 times?" "TEN TIMES!" "oh, Lord! how about Kaakaa?" "she liked the photo." "I mean-" "good god, boy, I don't have the tongue to answer your sim- plicity." He goes on around back there and plops himself in his chair again. among his wires and pliers and translations and his huge BIT- TER-LEAP notebook, Adolph's nose glued to the black front with edgeworks of the Berlin bunker in the background. "I'm working on something now," I tell him, "short about me walking in to interview the great composer. he's drunk. I get drunk, there's a maid. we're on the wine. he leans forward and tells me, 'The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth,'-" "yeah?" "and then he says, 'translated that means that the stupid have the greatest persistency.'" "kind of lousy." he says, "but it's all right for you." "but I don't know what to do with the story. I've got the maid walking around in a very short thing and I don't know what to do with it. I thought I might save the story by whiplashing the maid with my belt buckle and then sucking the composer's dick. but I've never sucked dick, never felt like it, I'm square, so I left the story in the center and never finished it." "every man is a homo, a dick-sucker; every woman is a dyke, why do you worry so much?" "because if I'm happy I'm no good and I don't want to be no good." We sit there a while and then she comes from upstairs, the flaxen straight string hair. it's the first woman I could eat, I think. but she walks past Sanchez and his tongue licks his lips just a bit, she walks past me like separate ball-bearings of magic wavering crazy flesh, may the heavens kiss my balls if it is not so, and she waves through it all glorious as avalanche smashed by sun- "hello, Hank," she says. "Kaakaa," I laugh. she goes behind her table and begins her bits of painting and he sits there, Sanchez, beard blacker than black power, but calm calm, no claims. I begin to get drunk, say nasty things, say anything. then I begin to get dull. I mumble, I murmur. "Oh, sorry- ta spoil yr evening-so sorry, fuckers- ya-I'm a killer but I won't kill anybody. I got class. I'm Bukowski! translated into SEVEN LANGUAGES! I AM the ONE! BUKOWSKI!" I fall forward trying to look at the jackoff picture again, pitch over something. it is one of my own shoes. I have this god damn bad habit of taking off my own shoes. "Hank," she says, "be careful." "Bukowski?" he asks, "You all right?" he lifts me up. "man, I think you better stay here tonight." "NO GOD DAMN IT, I'M GOING TO THE WOOD- CHOPPERS BALL!" next thing I know he's got me over his shoulder, Sanchez has and he's carrying me to his upstairs pad, you know, where he and his woman do the thing, and then I'm down on the bed, he's gone. door closed, and then I hear some kind of music downstairs, and laughter, the both of them, but kind laughter, no malice, and I did not know what to do, one did not expect the best, luck or people everybody failed you finally, well, and then the door opened, a pop of light, and there was Sanchez - "hey, Bubu, a bottle of good French wine-sip it slowly, do you most good. you'll sleep. be happy. I won't say we love you, that's too easy. and if you want to come downstairs, dance and sing, talk, o.k. do what you want. here's the wine." he hands me the bottle. I lift it like some crazy cornet, again and again. through a ripped curtain a part of the worn moon leaps. it is a perfectly good night; it is not jail; it is far from that- in the morning when I awaken, go down to piss, come out from pissing, I find them both asleep on that narrow couch hardly enough for one body, but they are not one body and their faces together and asleep their bodies together and asleep, why be corny??? I only feel the tiny clutch at the throat, the automatic transmission blues of loveliness, that somebody has it, that they don't even hate me-that they even wish me what?- I walk out staunching and griefing and feeling and sick and blue and bukowski, old, starlit sun, my god, reaching into the final corner, the last midnight blast, cold Mr. C., big H, Mary Mary, clean as a bug on the wall, the heat of December a brainweb across my everlasting spine, Mercy like Kerouac's dead baby sprawled across Mexican railroad tracks in the everlasting July of suck-off tombs, I maybe writing this down by myself, leaving a few things out (I have been threatened by various powerful forces for doing things that are only normal and gaga gladful to do) and I get into my eleven year old car and now I have driven away find myself here and write you here a little illegal story of love beyond myself but, perhaps, understandable to you. yours truly, Sanchez and Bukowski p.s. - this time the Heat missed. don't keep more than you can swallow: love, heat or hate. === 3chickens Vicki was all right, but we had our troubles. we were on the wine. port, that woman would get drunk and get to talking and she would make up some of the vilest imaginable stuff about me. and that tone of voice. shoddy and lisping and grating and insane. it would get to any man. it got to me. once she was screaming these insanities from the fold-down bed in our apartment. I begged her to stop. but she wouldn't. finally, I just walked over, lifted up the bed with her in it and folded everything into the wall. then I went over and sat down and listened to her scream. but she kept screaming so I walked over and pulled the bed out of the wall again there she lay, holding her arm, claiming it was broken. "your arm can't be broken," I said. "it is, it is. oh, you slimy jackoff bastard, you've broken my arm!" I had some more drinks but she just kept holding her arm and whining. I finally had enough and telling her I'd be right back I went downstairs and outside and found some old wooden boxes behind a grocery store. I found good sturdy slats, ripped them off, pulled out the nails, got back on the elevator and rode back to our apartment. it took about 4 slats. I bound them around her arm with rippings from one of her dresses. she quieted down for a couple of hours. then she started in again. I couldn't take it anymore. so I called a taxi, we went to the General Hospital, as soon as the taxi left I took the boards off and threw them into the street. then they x-rayed her CHEST and put her arm in a cast. can you imagine that? I suppose if she broke her head they'd x-ray her ass. anyhow, she used to sit in the bars after that and say, "I am the only woman who has been folded into a wall in a wall bed." and I wasn't so sure of THAT either, but I let her go on saying it. now, another time she angered me and I slapped her but it was across the mouth and it broke her false teeth. I was surprised that it broke her false teeth. and I went out and got this super cement glue and I glued her teeth together for her. it worked for a while and then one night as she sat there drinking her wine she suddenly had a mouthful of broken teeth. that wine was so strong it undid the glue. it was disgusting. we had to get her some new teeth. how we did it, I don't quite remem- ber, but she claimed they made her look like a horse. we'd usually always have these arguments after we drank awhile, and Vicki claimed I'd get very mean when I was drunk but I think that she was the one who was mean. anyhow, sometime during the argument she'd get up, slam the door and run outside to some bar. "looking for a live one," as the girls would say. it always made me feel bad when she left. I've got to admit it. sometimes she wouldn't come back for 2 or 3 days. and nights. it wasn't a very nice thing to do. one time she ran out and I sat there drinking the wine, think- ing about it. then I got up and found the elevator and rode on down to the streets too. I found her in her favorite bar. she sat there holding a kind of purple scarf. I'd never seen the purple scarf before. holding out on me. I walked up to her and said quite loudly: "I've tried to make a woman out of you but you're nothing but a god damned whore!" the bar was full. every seat taken. I lifted my hand. I swung. I backhanded her off that god damned stool. she fell to the floor and screamed. this was at the back end of the bar. I didn't even turn to look at her. I walked the length of the bar to the exit. then I turned and faced the crowd. it was very quiet. "now," I said to them, "if there's anybody here who doesn't LIKE what I just did, just SAY something-" it was quieter than quiet. I turned around and walked out the doorway. the moment I hit the street I could hear them babbling and buzzing in there, buzzing and babbling. the SHITS! not a man in the boatload! - but, of course, she came back, and, well, anyhow to get on, this one night lately we are sitting around drinking the wine and the same old arguments started. this time I decided to go. I'M GONNA GET THE FUCK OUTA THIS HOLE!" I yelled at Vicki. "I CAN'T STAND NO MORE OF YOUR GOD DAMNED ABUSE!" she jumped in front of the door. "over my dead body, that's the only way you are getting out of here! "o.k., if that's the way it's gotta be." I slammed her a good one and she fell down in front of the doorway. I had to move her body to get out. I took the elevator down. feeling rather good. a good jaunty 4-floor ride down. the elevator was kind of a cage-like contraption and smelled like old stockings, old gloves, old dustmops, but it gave me a feeling of security and power - somehow - and the wine rode all through me. but then I got outside and had a change of mind. I went to the liquor store. bought 4 more bottles of wine and went back to my place and rode the elevator back up. the same feeling of security and power. I walked into my place. Vicki was sitting in a chair crying. "I've come back to you, you lucky darling," I told her. "you bastard, you hit me. YOU HIT ME!" "umm, I said, opening a new bottle. "and you give me any more shit and I'll hit you again." "YEAH!" she screamed, "YOU'D HIT ME BUT YOU WOULDN'T HAVE ENOUGH GUTS TO HIT A MAN!" "HELL NO!" I screamed back, "I WOULDN'T HIT A MAN! YOU THINK I'M CRAZY? WHAT'S THAT GOT TO DO WITH IT?" that settled her for a bit and we sat for a bit and we sat drinking down the waterglassfuls of wine, port. then she started in on her abusive stuff again, mostly claiming I jacked off while she was asleep. well, even if it were true I figured that was my business and if it wasn't, then she was REALLY crazy. she claimed I jacked off in the bathtub, in the closet, in the elevator, everywhere. everytime I got out of the tub she'd run into the bathroom, like: "there! I SEE IT! LOOK AT IT!" "you crazy bat, that's just the dirt-ring." "no, that's "COME! that's COME!" or she'd run in while I was bathing under the arms or between the legs and say, "see, see, SEE! you're DOING IT!" "doing WHAT? can't a man wash his BALLS? those are MY balls, god damn you! can't a man wash his own balls?" "what's that thing sticking up there?" "my left index finger. now get the HELL OUT OF HERE!!!