Beerspit Night and Cursing (15 page)

now to coffee/ & love from

Sheri

16/dec/60 s.m. lee pobx 46 san gregorio calif

buk you got to know this: that fkn cat has caught onto me being an animal/ the stinking little bastard…no wonder we went inside to shit! he has dug po li & me functioning out doors same’s he does & he digs we eat meat/ now that prick actually fights with me if I am sitting on the coch coach couch…goddammit the thing with a back & pillows/ Al the cat hops up to sniff wot I got & if it smells good he tries to grab a snoutfull & when I rap his little wet nose he claws out & starts doing battle over the food/ I threw him
OUT
goddammit I aint gonna fight the communists the fascists the male chovanists the social stigma against cunt & the animal population also! that’d be two straws too many

he tries to sleep in po li’s sleeping bag & out in the altar bed…he raises hell to get me to bed down with him…it is horrible to have a cat in love with me & realising that I am also an animal/ no wonder our ancestors came in out of the rain to function/ or we wd lose our edge over the animal world
FAST
/ he has no respect for my human status/

it is an awful feeling—the animals always do that to me/ or maybe I am closer to them than the rest of us/ oye godttt wotttt/ when po li was inside ah stoods befo’ der merrrrror duckder & it wuz not empty no it warnt/ naked was the blue jay & she began to wobble like she saw the arab lady do practising for when she had her po li returned…& the infant cat lying on the bed/ the awful shock of horror…looking down that little punk…he was lying on his furry back with all his legs apart and his 6 week old pink erection/ that sort of thing makes me feel totally helpless/ makes me wonder just who that cat really is/ he sure knew what to do about a naked female doing an arab dance before the mirror/

buk I am losing my humanity out here…I am returning to the animals…speak a civilised word duckder & fast as I am going down under…next thing that arrives in the mail will have horns & a tail & hooves…I told Po Li “man if you hear me sqwuakkkk out in that temple…come out fast…as Pan has been known to love the nymphs when he grabs them”…& Po Li said most seriously “yeah, but I don’t know how fast he fucks…I might be too late no matter how fast I came”…in
other words he cdn’t be bothered to move if it didn’t really matter/ that man is plumb lazy

now I go/ I am going to bite a hunk off
Laughlin
today because when
EZRA SAID
she’s painting genius laughlin came in his drawers…but when ezra fell silent because he is now salty that she does the a & p instead of painting…“her job”…now L/ is silent as a corpse & I finally got a point to grab him on/ a dumb woodcut by a german boy that I wont knock down…
BUT WHY IMPORT ART WHEN WE GOT OUR OWN
?????? So one can kick his ass for that & one is gonna do it right now…

and so I go/ listen what happened to good mr. webb? “23 year old maniac” “torn” what do you mean? is it this race war? It is getting violent/ in d.c. one who smiles upon everybody with equal affection almost caused a riot in the drug store…because she smiled at the very black girl & the feeling was…“who the fuck do you think you are able to afford to smile at me when I don’t feel like smiling” it was so shocking I just got up & walked
OUT
but first I made a hex face/

it is the coal black people in ugly anger & they force the lighter people into it but the lighter people usually have white wives & my god what a mess/ a horrible mess which nevertheless cannot be outside of nature…something works thru us to effect a change/ something is rotten or fungus don’t grow on it/ & fermentation don’t take place/ I make my peace with my gods & am ready to die at each dawn or dusk & aint gonno submit to any horseshit/ Only another painting genius will know that I haven’t finished my work to my heart’s content as I work “beginning with the eyes & finished at every brush stroke” and out here in San Francisco…one day walking down calif. street in a yellow coat costing 3 bucks at a junk store & my bl. slacks from the dime store…but the cultured intelligence of my bones…& soft aristocratic hair from some ancestor…being a yankee mongrel nevertheless…and sort of jauntin’ down the street…the black man in his flash of hate for me…on calif. streeet…at noon & crowded with white slaves…he began to shout at me words more/less meaning: “oh you little society doll…you introduced bitch” one totally ignored it & then one got on the same bus with him & he’d calm’d down & he began
to see the grease spots on my clothes & got a funny look to him…when he saw holes in my toes etc/ but his first impression was of vitddd soupremecy/ they are worked up to a froth & it is not a nice situation & something will shortly be done about it as when it hits our innocents at broad noon on a crowded street…it aint far off from the blow-up & oh my god…they will be so sorry for we are not the enemy…may the Gods protect our Good Clarence Major/ he is blessed—

the communists are forcing the race war to “divide” us & weaken us/ what the divine intelligence is doing I can but surmise & look to the real world/

Nature does not begin the process of decay until the tree has fallen/ Nature does not allow any order to stand that is
UN
natural—the process is that the nordic or aryan appears with the Law & sets up shop/ then the softer soul’d whites show & intermarry with the delicious coloured races or sometimes a renegade nord will take a lady of colour to bed but not to wife & then the Spies of Godtttt show up because the fruit is ripe to rot then & we get the pressure of rot which makes us blow up & the nordic seed of the Law petrifies in the memory cells of the new Indians/ & we have culture preserved until a new batch of sperms arrive capable of continuing culch…The East Indians have perfectly petrified Aryan Law but they are not capable of furthering it—they preserve the seed & it will bloom again/

The question one put to the Gods/ why does all of it have to be individual? why suffering? each one hath a self & each little crab that must die knows he is dying/ that disturbs me. if it must rise & fall why must it suffer? Why is it so innocent?

re-reading/ i mean not one of those earless & sightless white slaves even heard the black man scream/ they are totally de-sensitised/ we are all alone in this concentration camp & that is what history always sez about us/ thank god we keep the traditions.

and the “doers of good are safe anywhere on earth whether they ship or swim” so hail to thee Fellow Swimmer maybe we get to Ship yet Baby/ now ah goes to work chewin’ on Laughlin/ not too hard…the poor bastard was born rich & that is a tough rap to beat/

love/

Sheri

20/dec/60 smlee pobx 46 san gregorio calif/

NO
bukowski you do
NOT
“know my mind” & yes bukowski I
DID
know why you wanted to have such titles…

It is part of this brain washed age for such terms from the underworld that was “a joke to Shakespear” to have become sentimentalised & now words of “affection”…because the race that maketh the whore/the gambler/& pimp & gives birth to imbeciles & advertises them in the newspapers to raise cash…breeds them with a purpose—to fleece th’ sheep…is running the popular state…
SO I AM PERFECTLY AWARE THAT YOU’D MEAN THEM AS WOIDTTTS OB AFFECTION
…& I didn’t
MEAN
that/ what I aimed at is this:

It is the tail end of the late late victorian period & I simply wanted you to move
OUT
of that category & move into the
NEW WORLD
that cant be yawned away/ for xts sakes bukowski how many books of poetry do you imagine have passed moi eyes? &
HOW
many sentimental-shock-type titles do you think exist? It will be that the scholars of the future will reject any book with Little Eva & Uncle Tom (now mated) titles. Alls I wanted was for you to graduate from the Foist Gradttt & have it be seen in yr titles/ Buk really/ really…really you “wanted to give them trinkets…those are my poems” oye/ the Jews will larffff at youse/ they
AINT
sentimental no they
AINT
/ They may be passionate but they aint sentimental/ and it is downright pitiful to write poetry & lay it at the feet of whores etc/

Let them be “having a goodtttt time”/ that is why mice
are
mice & we are people/ because we have eternity/ but
HOW
do you really know
WOT
der mouze is thinking now buk???? (in the box)

no I mean
WHERE
this “wise” ending to words started?? I can understand wot it signifies but what’s its history & traditions?

good to hear that you’ll be read back east as it cant hurt them to read you re:
Lit Artpress
altho one don’t quite like its title/

I never die Buk because I am Spirit acting thru Matter or that Energy made by
Prana
/ I am of the Crystal beyond Prana
& I never die; just have many names/ and Death’s a chance to catch a catnap badly needed/ the pattern is eternal & the form/ don’t worry about death because it is as sweet as a good sleep/

thankyew dear buk/ I
NEEDED
3 husbands/ and splendid/
UN
jealous—& spiritual/ I am only mo’ scared than the rest & needs lottsa handholdin’ in this dark/

Well am not aware of “absorbing” you but am aware of trying to show you what is clear to me & that’s all one can do from the outside is say “my brother tree that branch wobbles” to use Ezra’s word/

I know that Jory thinks it don’t matter & he gets sucked into the down dragging back wash/ & he did want too much at once/ Ezra said: “I waited until I was 40 before I began to breed” because
McNaughton
was breeding at 21 & still trying to write & study/

Have heard that Jory is a typical street corner male to his pitiful ol’ lady caught in the female trap of “how shall I do this dear?” Weak & fluttery & scared & Jory more so/ scowlin’ & snarlin’ “do it any…blather dather way you wanna” some one who’d been there & realised they were both so weak…sad/

my dear sweet “husbands”…they don’t drink…either one/ they just love SheriBoots & their mammas/

re: “first carefully sifting out wot u consider the poisons”:

“for know, my heart stands armed in my ear, And will not let a false sound enter there;”

Venus & Adonis/Shakespear

It wd seem that Shak/ familiar with same experience/ Ernie located the quote for me as is buried near last third of V & A/

And beware when you speak the name of
PAN
because he hath a sense of humour that surpasses even the cruelty of mankind/ and gotto print more A & P/

love/

Sheri

yr titles represent a
STYLE
(from late vic. period) & not a
FORM
!!!!!!

Dec. 21, 1960

Hoy, Shed!

am up in muck to menials, this will be short one (didn’t turn out so short—C.B. [
handwritten note
]) to let u know I am still Buk.

If Pan moved yr altar, I’d suggest u leave it there even if location appears out of bounds. Coulda been bum or child or ghost or drunk, but in this form too—Pan. If you see it that way, and if you see it that way, it is. We half form our god-things and our god-things half form us, and that is why it is difficult to meet, because we are in half-light and each form often almost always going in wrong direction; here you have the darkness. But when the halves meet head on—which seldom happens—then you have the vision and the miracle. Of course, we have false gods too and false god-seekers. An intoxicated young man went leaping down Hollywood Blvd. the other night playing a fife or somesuch and the fuzz threw him in. In this case, young man claimed he was Pan. Probably not so. I think I have been close enough to Pan to realize he would not dance down Hollywood Blvd. Young man was more likely a fairy an’ I don’t mean a water-sprite.

Card from
Linick
telling me some of my stuff will be read on radio. If they think they can ruin my fine villiany (spell?) with a few megocycles, they are pissing against the wrong tree.

I’m not even gona listen. We’ve got to watch ourselves lest we become something else. The racetracks are bad enough, and it is only that I seek the freedome of leisure that I go there—to make enough to quit everything and flop down next to the cow and sun myself without worrying about the rent. And so it is we become trapped. I lose leisure seeking leisure, and it was
Jeffers who said something like
, There are traps for all men, and they say that God was trapped when he walked upon the earth. Jesus got hung, in the modern vernacular. And I am hanging myself everyday, but I am doing it alone and through action, and
perhaps yet I will sneak through. But God, we lose a lot. Each day they cut off a chunk and you walk there with another piece missing, and pretty soon you’re dead like the rest of them, walking around dead and around and over the dead and through the dead and you walk and talk and write letters, but it’s just what’s left of a bad machine. Yet, I am aware of my dying and will not be fooled by the process.

You are not dying, Shed; you are a perfect example of vibration with the Life-force, and you will always be beautiful and alive no matter how old you get—although (I am rushing here) beautiful is a lousy word, it, ya, has been used so much it is no longer beautiful but simply a poor vanilla flavor that dissolves with the spit of the tongue—a patooiee! I will not defile you with it, but do not have another word in my pocket right now.

I’ve been going too strong. The mind, ya, is muddled, uooah so muddy!…all the people feet and faces tramping right on thro…The sing is, hell, I mean, the sign is on with me to build more than bleached bones of rat-gnaw for the casket, if I ever geta casket, nobody knows me, except a poor ol woman of fifty; I’ve orphaned myself out, but we Chermans don’t
CRY
, Shed, tho we may growl and strut, we don’t cry…

Oye, I think on the
WHITE SUPER
, whozit, the lover of ariel Brahms, or what—San Diego joe whts his??? Oh, ya, Payne, think he’s gona blast you for letter you wrote, printing letter, and then blasting. But if I know Payne—he will hang himself because his stuff comes from the
OUTSIDE
and he is posing as an
EDUCATED MACPISS CAT
and all he will say is what
HE THINKS IS CORRECT THROUGH THE EYES OF OTHERS AND THROUGH TRADITION
…You may sometimes be wrong, Shed, but your kinda wrong and Ezra’s kinda wrong and Jeffers kinda wrong (Do!!! Read
Tamar, Roan Stallion
,
Such Consoules
misspelled!
as You Have Given Me
) I take rather than the practical rightness of the prigs. Don’t you worry what he scribbles bout you, the 6 or 7 living people in the world will know what the hell.