Beerspit Night and Cursing (10 page)

I have my back against the wall on another issue, but mention of it here would seem—integral with the locale of petty grief, so to hell.

Yes, got birthday cookies, best god damn, I can say with clarity, I ever ate. To say thanks would not be good message, don’t know message to say, simply I ate
GOOD
.

Maybe I ate God, I dunno, but guess he would taste kind of bitter.

Jory Sherman? How do you
SPELL
that?

X-wife B. Fry regales me, bringing in aid of
“The Republic”
in
Trace
39. I proud for her, and do not mind whipping. She looks good and needs victory; I give her victory. Not saying, turn other cheek, only
Texas far away—I remember Wheeler
only as a dog, some boards, old leaves, and sitting on picnic tables waiting for snow. The rest is senseless.

I hope to get some poems to you. Everything now, rather odd. oh, vacation all gone, used up. More on card in Feb., if I am still there. May run up for a week or so. Right now: all dull.

L.,

Charles

10/octobre/60 s.m. 15 lynch

darling buk/

’z all right—take yr time/ you
KNO
I will/ zo damm’d much to do…and still in fk up dept due to it being the
Tai Yin or Grit Dark…
acc’d to Slant philo.

the A & P Rev will take some few months yet—so whenever
you have anything for us…mail over/ am boiling sea water—dr. lovell sez it is
GOOT
for yew/ go get some and boil it ’bout 10 min. to moidre the unsusp. germs within or still lifes & take 10 tbsp. daily or place it within yr beer & lo an’ beholt but from the old self emerges a watersnake/ Po Li reading yr poem in the expensive paper maz “man this guy sure knows a
LOT
…
‘carbon on filiments of brain’
…do
YEW
know wot that means Butterfly-Brains?”…she said: “go fk yrself darling…no
I DON’T
…but
IF
Bukowski said that I
YAM
sure that Bukowski
MEANT
that…” said MezzoSlant “it means…wot it means to an electric light bulb…when carbon appears on its filiments…it is a burn’t out bulb…man, this guy sure knows a helliva
LOT
…” yew haz a hadmirerer…in Po’ Li…Buk/

from New O/ comes a Sr. Webb who says you are a rec. & asks if I’ll contrib. something on Hezra…I will submit something controversial—
WHY
ought’n I treat Ezra like a m a l e in
MOI
life/ ’stead me bein’ in Hiz’n?/ aaaaaah? zo I vill keez & squeel…or sqweel or howhellspell’d…just to “pull Bun’s leg”…Ezra’s name is ‘Bun’ or ‘Br’r Rabbit’ as Mr. E. is ‘Possum’…or I’ll see…maybe one ought to present Gramps to her contemporaries…as a Boet? a Heconomist? a Hanti-sezmide? a cat’lik? a prot?…ah preferz him az a m a l e that’s moi dish/ sorry Buk now don’t get sniffy…as the weekend fresh air went to one’s brain-combs…

very glad to see yr face/ one said: “is he German?” since Po Li spent some time in Germany & knows the races within ’em/ he said: “oh boy—
IS
he German!” It seems yr brooding…moody…deep…deep…face cometh from the ancient race…I see wot ‘how yew spell dot’ Jory meant when he said: “he’s beautiful!”

now Lamb one must distill one’s swamp wat’r…and love, love, love…to buk/ from us all…will send pix shortly yaz…but ah wanz a flatter’n one & Po Li is fkn me op…

Sheri

yr letter of “oct. 5 or 6’60”: all right Buk/ scream when yew bang yr toe—or follow the sense which does…I comprehend/
isn’t that wot Ezra is doing:
“oh, let an old man rest”

& Canto 92

that was when the cruel Miz Martinelli was his beloved & she was out…down in Spade-town…turning on…and sweet gramps was locked up inside St. Liz…longing to protect his fragile Butterfly…so intent upon self-moidre…and he came to know the “sense which screams when you bang yr toe…” he banged his entire male nature…

but one don’t expect from the Bukowski child…wot EzraInfant cd do…age “110” that is…to keep the head…after banging the toe…& give them a little French because it will exercise their “brains” (?) and grampa is a fkn stzientizst…so he carefully records the precise information on it…as
UN
emotionally as possible…“only those who make the journey know the way”…only a real man…in love with a wayward infant…who
HAD
to
EX
plore her age…entirely…to know where each one had been…‘down with it’…she was…iz…only our real man…chained in his prison cell…longing to protect his love…in legal, moral, ethical, physical, psychical, metaphysical & economic danger…only he wd know how much agony was in ezra’s lines—so wrung from emotion…actually…ezra had the whole hospital upset…he was sending telegrams…writing spec. del. letters & phoning with special get-dr-op-middle-night permission…and he was writing…
“2. a.m.…the moon…delecta…”

I cannot read those lines without weeping furiously & bitterly—my god…but one pays for what one gets
AFTER
one has used it all up…Life, you’ll be the death ob me…

…ezra gazing out of that bar’d & wire’d narrow long gothic window…out on the lawn of St. Liz…on the still enormous pine tree…& watching the moon at 2 a.m.…oh I have endured many torments…but that is more than I can bear…
master thyself
then others can thee put op wiff…/ no buk ’z no use pleading wit’ me—when I make yew those EzraPoundKakes…I’m sticking the classics inside them and you’ll
NEVER
know…darling…
NEVER
…you’ll swallow ’em entire/

yew spell Jory Sherman:
I n n o c e n t e Caro

all right
Little Lamb who Laid thee
…I’ll wait until Buk has something to send and right now I send Love/

Sheri

Monday nite—Oct. 10, 1960—10:00 p.m.[
typed postcard; postscript is handwritten around edges
]

Yes,
Shed:

CHAPTER IX
of
L’AFFAIR BUK*MARTINELLI
:

Repeat chapter II: “Where in hell are mah cookies?”…not much else gong: off won, feet running head, blue sea shakes water glass full of tremble and shark…mete more watts of condecension for Buk, he story-naked in Big-pinch world, you too tough with formula standing Buk in giant Pound-shadow…columbine and chasms, you listen, I will send you poems but u gotta be more consistent; love on Thursday, hate on Friday too big a knot to untie, rather eat mugwort…Pro raining in Hamburg now, people black umbrellas, spider hulls sick wet closing heads puffed to single tune: almost zero…Looky Sheri, easy on this leveret—your lense will double back and split in your beer…You right on bad year: this has been a heller; but today I give you sympathy, and what love is left, and a postcard to read.

L.,

Buk

I am asleep on the rocks. Wow. Wow. You tell Pound u know good kid. He smile big, so O.K.—I leave. Stop now. O.K. O.K.—

[
postcard dated by SM 11 October 1960; typed around a drawing of CB passed out on bed with bottle of liquor on floor
]

Hi ho, Shed:

Gezus, I think I been stung by bee somewhere or mebe bad whiskey…ol’ woman over, cooked slab of meat, drank mah wine, robbed Buk a prcous manhood. Dropped earlier coupla hundred on horsething race, ended up playin’ poker fa paper clips. Really livin’, Shed baby. Wish u was here to wash the dishes, throw out tha trash, sing to me ok ok ok ok ok, this is a virtual wonder land in the latest trends in dying. Hello to Po Li. Wang. San Francisco in general. list. to Lizst. not impressed. L., Chas the Buk.

Chas B
—

[
undated postcard
]

if yv nvr ridden ina bean u don no wat livin means n to hell with Vivaldi, n if uv never been in a room wit Sheri M while she’s tossed her beercans against the walls or talked abt Gramps and Cantos 90 and 92, well, the hell with—Vivaldi, if u’ve never seen Sheri rip the phone frum the wall or Po Li get the bowl ’n roach ready, y’ve wasted yr time, friend, listenin’ to—Vivaldi,
or if u’ve neva gotten letas frum Shed tellin’ y that u build
a-hole palaces
and that Sherman’s gona cross t Jordan, well ok, and too bad, n if U’ve neva eaten tha cakes n cookies that gassed Pound, ok, man, or formulas for sea-water to make u stan up after 40, well ok, man; I sent her a photo a me in full topue, waterin the lawn; she sen bak a dog’s leg frozen n orange gelatine…wal, t nex mov iz up t tha Dutchess…I got 35 colored boys workin for me heah, each ona em carryin a razor sharperin
Krusekev
, an me…I’m a listening to Vivaldi.

yes,

BUK

Aiee, Oct 12, won nine 6ho los the angels sing in dishwater

Lookie hear Sherryone:

beer ’n soda crackers for lunch, I have new ribbon but two dragrat tired to change, Grit Dark, symphysis of snails and fire.

—Buk, portion of poem
Our Bread Is Blessed and Damned
, now out in the hands of the makers.

Yes, Sheri, seawater infected with temperate distillers of decay; I would say, however, that boiling creates a palimpsest and breaks the back of magic. magic being anything larger than us that we do not understand.

Po Li has filament part of broken hand straight, tho this more difficult for woman, although woman has 3 filaments: spiritual, mental and physical—these listed in their proper order. What I mean by spiritual, I can’t quite say and that is why numb one.

Webb, at this moment, most rancorous, dedicated, humane, human editor to come along since the bottle took the
Whit outa Burnett.
Frank Brookhauser
once wrote me, “Don’t trust Whit Burnett.” A course, this only had reverse affect and I sent Whit 36 short stories a month until he finally got tired and took one. Webb a little taken in by
NAMES
but he will get over this when he realizes that a man can be a poet on Tuesday, and the next day, Wedns., get up and be something else because he did something not wrong but poetry deadening on Tuesday nite or las month or las year and it finally added to a thrown away burnt out light globe, and there is nothing you can do but crash it against a wall, glass and ripped tires in sunlight and somebody talking about nothing

as I may be doing and people being kind and telling me nothing, and having never been a name not helping

as being a name is to an extent the meddling of audience who

almost without fail

over-rate or under-rate their contemporaries.

SIR BOT MAL
: baseball games and frogs.

If you present Pound as male the world has fresh material.

No, my face is scars, I have to get under certain light or no light so things will not show, although what was once shame for this is now nullity. From 14 on face broke out (plus back) in boils large as peaches; charity ward at county hospital decided for worse case in history to simply take electric drill and drill drill drill drill drill, it was no so good although I picked the winner of the Kentucky Derby under the drill in 1934 because the sound of the name (
Omaha
?) came to me clearly under the rivets, a damn good longshot, and I think the year is right. Somewhere in there, it had to be. I fell in love with a nurse who must have been 45 because she saw that under all the sores and ugliness, the silence, sat a human being. One of the docs said he’d never seen anyone go under the needle like I did, but I think he told that to all the boys to keep the place down to a concocted cotton scream.

I read plntya classics then while the young boys were buying corsages and dancing while the young boys were kissing and what

Buk met Shelley and threw him out and Keats and threw him out

and Shakey out and the Romans and Greeks out

and Brahms out and Bee in, and Chike in and Bach out (except for organ works), and Li Po in and Villon and Rachmony and Pound

and early Eliot and early
E.E.
, and Jeffers in

and A. Huxley and D.H.L. and Schopenhauer and Spender

and James Thurber and Van Gogh and John Dillinger and all the
RUSSIANS
, all the Russian writers and composers and poets, and Fred N[ietzsche]. and others who have slipped out of grip or moment’s recall.

This is not a confessional except to xpress that I did my reading when it counted, when the words and sounds stood out between real hell and simple survival. An’ if u want to
slip
me some classics in tha insides a cookies to take lak a pill, well, Martinelli, that’s ur business. I forgive you.

There is this: there is a time to stop reading, there is a time
to
STOP
fk trying to
WRITE
, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of
ART
out on its whore-ass. There is too much competition and slickness and formula. There is only one thing to be patriot of and that is the guideless will growing in its own mud, ripping out leaves and sounds, in
spite
of what it has been taught. We are growing more and more toward what is being thought of as formlessness at the moment, that later will only be the measuring rod of fools. And so it will go: the upward spurting of a few things until we end.