Charles Bukowski – the difference between a bad poet and a good one is luck

I suppose so.

I was living in an attic in Philadelphia

It became very hot in the summer and so I stayed in the

bars. I didn’t have any money and so with what was almost left

I put a small ad in the paper and said I was a writer

looking for work . . .

which was a god damned lie; I was a writer

looking for a little time and a little food and some

attic rent.

a couple days later when I finally came home

from somewhere

the landlady said, there was somebody looking for

you. and I said,

there must be some mistake. she said,

no, it was a writer and he said he wanted you to help him write

a history book.

oh, fine, I said, and I knew with that I had another week’s

rent—I mean, on the cuff—

so I sat around drinking wine on credit and watching the hot pigeons

suffer and fuck on my hot roof.

I turned the radio on real loud

drank the wine and wondered how I could make a history book

interesting but true.

but the bastard never came back,

and I had to finally sign on with a railroad track gang

going West

and they gave us cans of food but no

openers

and we broke the cans against the seats and sides of

railroad cars a hundred years old with dust

the food wasn’t cooked and the water tasted like

candlewick

and I leaped off into a clump of brush somewhere in

Texas

all green with nice-looking houses in the

distance

I found a park

slept all night

and then they found me and put me in a cell

and they asked me about murders and

robberies.

they wanted to get a lot of stuff off the books

to prove their efficiency

but I wasn’t that tired

and they drove me to the next big town

fifty-seven miles away

the big one kicked me in the ass

and they drove off.

but I lucked it:

two weeks later I was sitting in the office of the city hall

half-asleep in the sun like the big fly on my elbow

and now and then she took me down to a meeting of the council

and I listened very gravely as if I knew what was happening

as if I knew how the funds of a halfass town were being

dismantled.

later I went to bed and woke up with teethmarks all over

me, and I said, Christ, watch it, baby! you might give me

cancer! and I’m rewriting the history of the Crimean War!

and they all came to her house —

all the cowboys, all the cowboys:

fat, dull and covered with dust.

and we all shook hands.

I had on a pair of old bluejeans, and they said

oh, you’re a writer, eh?

and I said: well, some think so.

and some still think so . . .

others, of course, haven’t quite wised up yet.

two weeks later they

ran me out

of town.

Charles Bukowski – About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter

he lives in a house with a swimming pool

and says the job is

killing him.

he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to

get rid of

him. his novels keep coming

back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams

“go to New York and pump the hands of the

publishers?”

“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a

small room and do the

thing.”

“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to

go by, some word, some sign!”

“some men did not think that way:

Van Gogh, Wagner—”

“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him

paints whenever he

needed them!”

“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and

this guy walks in. a salesman. you know

how they talk. drove up in this new

car. talked about his vacation. said he went to

Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who

wrote it. now this guy is 54 years

old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only

opera.’ and then I told

him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he

asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and

you don’t know anything!’”

“what happened

then?”

“I walked out.”

“you mean you left him there with

her?”

“yes.”

“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a

job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and

they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for

this job, he won’t stay

so there’s really no sense in hiring

him.

now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:

you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a

job and they look at you and they think:

ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire

him he’ll stay a long time and work

HARD!”

“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a

writer, that you write poetry?”

“no.”

“you never talk about

it. not even to

me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d

have never known.”

“that’s right.”

“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a

writer.”

“I’d still like to

tell them.”

“why?”

“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a

horseplayer and a drunk.”

“I am both of those.”

“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.

I’m the only friend you

have.”

“yes.”

“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell

them you write

poetry.”

“leave it alone. I work here like they

do. we’re all the same.”

“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why

I travel with

you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”

“forget it.”

“all right, I’ll respect your

wishes. but there’s something else—”

“what?”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a

piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a

violin too but I can’t make up my

mind!”

“buy a piano.”

“you think

so?”

“yes.”

he walks away

thinking about

it.

I was thinking about it

too: I figure he can always come over with his

violin and more

sad music.

Charles Bukowski – 8 count

from my bed

I watch

3 birds

on a telephone   

wire.

one flies

off.

then   

another.

one is left,

then

it too

is gone.

my typewriter is

tombstone

still.

and I am

reduced to bird

watching.

just thought I'd

let you

know,

fucker.

Charles Bukowski – a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore

don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me

at the racetrack any day half drunk

betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,

but let me tell you, there are some women there

who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you

look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores

you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke

dealing out so much breast and ass and the way

it’s all hung together, you look and you look and

you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women

and then there is something else that wants to make you

tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven

across the back of the john; anyhow, the season

was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,

all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,

the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners

themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:

a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;

he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly

and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.

the driver broke him wide

took him out by the fence where he’d be alone

even if he had to travel four times as far,

and that’s the way he went it

all the way by the outer fence

traveling two miles in one

and he won like he was mad as hell

and he wasn’t even tired,

and the biggest blonde of all

all ass and breast, hardly anything else

went to the payoff window with me.

that night I couldn’t destroy her

although the springs shot sparks

and they pounded on the walls.

later she sat there in her slip

drinking Old Grandad

and she said

what’s a guy like you doing

living in a dump like this?

and I said

I’m a poet

and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.

you? you . . . a poet?

I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.

but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,

and all thanks to an ugly horse

who wrote this poem.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox – The Two Glasses

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,

On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

One was ruddy and red as blood,

And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,

"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;

I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,

Where I was a king, for I ruled in might;

For the proudest and grandest souls on earth

Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;

From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.

I have blasted many an honored name;

I have taken virtue and given shame;

I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,

That has made his future a barren waste.

Far greater than any king am I,

Or than any army beneath the sky.

I have made the arm of the driver fail,

And sent the train from the iron rail.

I have made good ships go down at sea,

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;

Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine,

"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the water-glass: "I cannot boast

Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,

But I can tell of hearts that were sad

By my crystal drops made bright and glad;

Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;

Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.

I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,

Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.

I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,

And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;

I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;

I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,

That ground out the flower, and turned at my will.

I can tell of manhood debased by you,

That I have uplifted and crowned anew;

I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;

I gladden the heart of man and maid;

I set the wine-chained captive free,

And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,

The glass of wine and its paler brother,

As they sat together, filled to the brim,

On a rich man's table, rim to rim.