Beerspit Night and Cursing (34 page)

The Irish are more superstitious than the Jews; the Grecians and Italians, both lower and upper India are more sexual than the Jews, or I might throw in the Turks or any dog with a lose bone…Please, Shed, when you make rules take in more than the light rag thrown from a singular exception so seeming to you. I take you at task to keep you clear; I do not argue, only say, you are a woman, which in the long run of history, is unfortunate.

The idea is to write the poem or the word; what happens after that is up to the dogs.

love,

Charles

BUKOWSKI

[
postcard dated by SM 27 June 1961
]

Dear Shed: they tell me I will be on the radio, my poems, that is, on KPKF FM, July 2 at 11 p.m. and July 3 at 10:45 p.m. Don’t think you can catch it up there; doubt if I will listen either—no FM set. People are beginning to know that I am alive but the test comes in remaining as I am in spite of them.

There has been much interference from the practical world and I have not been able to get my card off to H.D. yet, but either tonight or tomorrow I will…. Sherman down here remains pest, phoning at all hours of night and morning, always salty, headlong, demanding; Sherman only sees Sherman and I guess some writers are that way, but sometimes I pray for gentility, decency, courtesy, mercy…not the biblical and sugary
sort, but away with the bitching and stamping of feet and snarling, and the insane lust for fame. L.,

Buk

L.A., Sunday nite Aug 13

Hello Sheri:

Well, as you can see, I mailed card to H.D.; evidently she either died or moved or became well again.

I have been on one as usual, not feeling well. I hear from kaja and Corrington, off and on. Sherman in town, has landed something or other with the movies.

Presume you are thriving with your herbs, witchcraft and lore.

Love,

Buk

[
postcard dated by SM 30 August 1961
]

Princess:

gt.yrs. Hope you can locate recorder and wen u du it does not disattach us for eternity—u know that the crass and bleeryeyed Buk does not always hold poesy as holy as some of the gods wd wish, and since I do not educate the masses, only the masses of myslf that need straightenin’ and laughs for my friends, I hope u take it in gd and simple order, and I think u will, wise one…You may keep tape, destroy it, or whatever; it was just meant for a moment, unimportant…Jory left town; we did not apprec. him here. There are more soul mates in Frisco to satisfy his moment-byOh every-moment hunger…Waitin’ on
A & P
; still reread yr last won…and L. with capital plus 3,

Buk (no pen)

Buk

Los Angeles, Calif.
Sept.ending 1961

hiyo mamma:

rec. your pc. of blue paper letter; have been meaning to go ahead an’ say thanks for sending
H.D. issue
, and in fact, did write letter, 2 pages, but an oddity or a god or an ulcer-impulse caused me to tear her up. No intent of malice or ill-will, just one of those things you do when you get a message from under the rug.

some one you know, let’s say X, phoned collect other night from Frisco, coming in on jet, wanted me to pick him up at airport. He was there, another face in the crowd, operator, all a lady’s man, a boy, the drivel of small things crawling his dome, worse than ever, more sunk than when I had seen him before. He radiated poison. Talk about the gods leaving; they had only thrown a shadow upon him in the first place—and now, that was gone. He slept on the couch, but not before phoning everybody in town at 12:30 a.m. outa a little black book, many women, telling them all the same thing, which is all too sick to repeat here. I dumped him off someplace the next day and then came back and closed the door, put the chain on, plugged the phone, and the walls were roses, the walls were music, and the blood began to flow back through my heart.

sometimes it is just a pleasure to stand in the center of a room and drink a glass of water without being disturbed.

it is people that kill the god. if you are by the wrong people too long he will leave. You can live for ten thousand years in a room full of stones but beware things that walk and are called human. The animals are still pure. I can stay in a room with a dog and nothing radiates but easy warmth. I am a dog myself, I know dogs, cats, tho birds and fish mystify, are out of ken. But I can feel the little round soul of a dog, I can see the sparks of it that are called paws, snout, hair. He is a too good guy, yes; we know each other. But x, x, oh, it’s too sick!…

I cannot kid you. about H.D. she has her style. I am not
much of a known poet. It appears that unless you have fame, your statements are not given credence; but I do not think like H.D., her poems are too honed for me. I am slow, I am slow it is true.

And so we go along.

If I am still around come next Feb.March, hope to come to Frisco for week or so. Should I disturb you? If not, I unnerstan’.

Well, now going to open my beer. Ah.

Sure, mama.

love,

Buk

Los Angeles, Calif.
Sept. 28, no 29, 1961

Deah Shed:

just a short one, and you needn’t respond…right off, only to say, no, don’t want tape back, I have a machine, a bad one, true, but if I feel like making more sounds, it’s there. I got it orig. to record some classical music, build a collection of sounds and what not, but since getting it, have done little. Your tape bad tape, tech. that is; Sears-Roebuck or what, and they have tendency to dry and split. Now have a couple a rolls of “mylar” which is tougher, like me. Writing this to say, due wat u wnt wit tape, but hope you got laugh.

I am up to my ass in poems and correspondence, and what with working nights and playing the ponies and drinking too much beer, I can’t seem to keep up with everything, but more important is, there must be lulls of
DOING NOTHING OR YOU DIE
. This is important. Doing nothing is important because this is the glue that holds us: walking in the sun with things coming into the eye as it comes into the animal’s eye, or on the bed with the ceiling like a blanket, nothing else, this is the glue that holds us together. The busy
BANG BANG BANG GO
go go, that is Wall st. and erie tearing. Pure creation is ok, we all know that, no argument, but it’s easy to be tapped and trapped by a lot of things on the edge of creation. There is always this sense of loss, loss, the draining away brought on by the self, and when you
add an intrusion, say, by Sherman or X, it is almost madness.

Kaja in Paris. Did I mention? She has angel, prob. Corso, tho not sure, and not my business. Gal bit depressed, walkup to room 6 floors, no window, just room, but still Paris and this keeps her going. Paris is still the magic word in cities, but not to me. I know cities are people and I know people in a way so that cities are the same. But there is a light in Kaja, I say. A good woman. She makes the mistakes we all do, we who explore beyond ordinary edges. She speaks of bringing out some of my work bi-lingual, some excerpts from letters and a couple of new poems and a few old ones. Now here she is, upset and poor, lost in a tiny room, a gamble of some sort, all melancholy, the thrill of buying a cigarette package in French about gone, and she’s thinking about bringout somebody
else’s
work. A good childwoman.

My 2nd. book still sitting at printers, in Pittsburg or somewhere, I think, but will out, sometime, I suppose. Also coming out in
book with college prof.
, each of us taking about 20 pages wit pomes, only he funny college prof., cusses, and brags on me. This one might beat the other book out. Will send you both or all 3, or what the hell.

Thank you for the invite. Will drive up about March ’62 but will let you know plenty time ahead about approx day arrival. I am gentle with people’s property and time and am old man who does not say much and likes to look at sun. Must sleep now, all things catching up with me. I can feel small poems beginning to build in my shoulders and wrists and belly, and they need rest to form. In and out of shadows, up and down; it has been bad lately. Good to hear again, princess, my love,

Buk

ps—Kaja at, in case you feel like writing: [
address missing
]

[
postcard dated by SM 16 October 1961
]

Dear Shed:

just heard of
death of H.D.
, and although her poetry did not signal as much to me as it did to you, my regrets, know she was yr friend, but, lo, she did leave us a mark, and very few do that.

I must confess that I miss your letters but realize you have things to do which you consider more important than writing Bukslob. The news is thin: my
x-wife has closed down her magazine
, Sherman is back in Frisco, I am told, after robbing the man’s apartment who befriended him, it’s hot, my 2nd book still not out, drinking a little less, and that’s about it. You tried leaf oregano with your eggs yet, like I told you? I thought not! Babe, sometimes ya gotta listen to me, I cannot always be incorrect, can i? aw right,

Buk

Los Angeles, Calif.
Late Oct. ’61

Hello Princess:

You prob got the Autumn
Quicksilver
I asked them to send you, you probably got it now and have read my poem
Vegas
, and I have an idea you will be (are) upset. It would have been easier for me not to let you see this poem, but that is the coward’s way out. First let me say that this poem was written long before the death of H.D., and second, it was written in a humorous way with no intent at insult. That’s all I can say.

My second book is out now—just got a few in the mail today—
Longshot Poems for Broke Players
, and if I find that you are not angry I will mail you a copy right away. I did the drawing on the cover and a few for the inside, and most of my latest poems are in there. I don’t want to mail you a copy if you are just going to tear it up. Will wait to hear if you would like to see my head in a lion’s jaws or what.

I think it fine that the H.D. issue reached her when it did; your sense of timing, of
being
there, was perfect.

It is so sad when the good ones die…

I liked very much the
Pound poem for H.D.
, even though his mathematics are off. It is a thing of no small meaning that Ezra at his age still writes with the perfect ear and eye, where so many younger men, after a small fling at immortality have decayed.

Your vision was a true one. I had a vision once when I was very young, I mean in my early 20’s. But no more. The gods have, perhaps, thrown me away.

I am rather sick tonight. No need to go into why or what. Only I must slow down a little…

Very good to hear from you, Shed.

It’ll soon be March and you can cuss me to my face. Believe I will get about 3 weeks off but will only hang around a couple of days or so…don’t want to be a pest…and will spend remainder of vacation in L.A. Will also try not to show up on weekend as I know that is
verbotten
…But, then, I don’t know how we stand now. This
Vegas
poem may have done me in with you…

Shed, I am rather sick really. Must stop.

Glad you liked the leaf oregano with eggs. I must go now.

love,

Buk

L.A.
November 1961

Shed:

All right, I won’t visit you this March as you don’t wish it. And don’t worry, I won’t try to search you out. I don’t drop in where I am not invited—as your “gentleman” Ernie did on me! Talking about lawsuits, etc. How could you sue me? I don’t have anything.

My old woman was not very impressed with your Ernie’s intelligence which he tried to strut all over the place. I had to tell him, for Christ’s sake, Ernie, put the textbook down!

Well, I’ve met your lad now and I send him back.

Indeed.

“He tried so hard to act intelligent but he couldn’t make it,” said the old lady.

The old lady said a mouthful.

You missed the point of the
Quicksilver
poem. It was not to ruffle your hair or “expose you to the lower orders”; your part in the poem was only
incidental
and the letter might have been from anybody, the idea being that I was gnawing at the truckdriver, and the whole intent of the poem was humourous, not scandalous, and if you will take time to step down from that lofty damned perch you have built for yourself and give the poem an impartial reading you will be able to see this.

Now, since you asked for the book, I am enclosing it and you can do what you please with it

BURN

     
TEAR IT, CURSE IT

           
BURY IT

throw it in with the rest of the rubbish, throw it to the sea, the birds, the ants, the wolves or

still,
      love,
           
Buk

9/nov/61 sm pobx 756 half moon calif

Dea
RRRRRRRRRR
Bukowski:

From mah lofty dammed perch which ah has built fo’ mahzelfffff ah dew notice (the air beingkkkkk clearer op here) that one l’l letter ob mine doth cause yew to rage mo’n one l’l poem ob yrs did cause me.

So much fo’ scientifikkk observation!

iz 8/52 a.m. just got to frisco hotel room:

now hold on kidttt—let us discuss March—the thing
IS
Buk that I don’t want to expose
MY
foibles to yr scrutiny
IF
I can help it—if you’d
EVER
get an eyeful of my
PRIVATE
essays as yet
UN
published &
FAR
more
UN
printable than yrs you’d
NOT
want to expose yrself to
MY
scrutiny!

Yr Lady correct—Ernie
DOES
“strut” being a bantam rooster & you too; he does haul in the “textbook” ///
recordi
that Ernie is a provincial; a rustic who knew nothing until he hit Frisco—it is
EASIER
to de-louse a Tong pawn from Columbia University than to de-hick Ernie. I hev tried with no success—but that don’t mitigate the fact that he saved my life when I’d lost face with my Mezzo-slant; Ernie is responsible for me being here as I had quit it Buk & I, therefore hold him dear & his native intelligence has not to date been matched except by E.P.
WITH THIS EXCEPTION
that Ernie has his racial roots to grow from & E.P. his & therein lies a worldtttt of difference which may or may not meet at some far point in Time/Destino