Beerspit Night and Cursing (5 page)

You are going to allow everyone to die, dear Sheri, but your courage is an ox. wunded a course, ur not foolin’ me, u been sittin’ in my hell and u got no business tellin’ me to cum on out when u’s half foot in, halfass out, still getting stung.

lovin’
hilaritas,
yes good, yes u good there, open mind to see sea sharks and meanin a sharks an meanin a teeth knowin they are they and there and dyin’ in ’em like an artist and a man or woman, bring laughter but not cheap bobhope but 1. at self tapped and trapped and big in the jaws laughin at formula, the sparge of cancer of tipped ripping and demise…no, do not discipline spirit, let take hold and call own shots. make no spartan rules, let the ocrea and ochre run, u paint, I have painted, we will paint. and, no education an so forth—think I want to catch up to the Russians? Let them catch up to me. education
distasteful word, u probably in ur spirit wanted and meant something else. do not l[et’]s be word-hagglers, I am no good sometime…cous’.

o, on
Sherman,
I write him different thing that I know he prefers. I am kinder than u think. I am not saying he will not someday be a very fine poet but at 26 I am worried for him—there are so many 26’s that are far something else even before 30, and thing—wife in pregnancy and all, look like trap. Fry got so god damned mad when I refused babies because I knew I was insane. she tricked me into it, but miscarriage. all this may seem selfishness but I will die alone. But on Sherman, I write him. He, so worldly. Meets editors walking down street. Phones this and that. Reads poetry here and there, piano background, Lorca, sets things up, booths, fairs, magazines…It gives me a feeling of things going on when I hear from him, and I think he is honest and well-meaning but rather imagine he has a tremendous flare when set off and could be rather narrow and unforgiving…but I don’t know and hate these measurement things, and find when talking about him rather talk as he does. his poetry is so poetic, so silken, suffering true, but only…i wish he could get in a few back-alley fights and lock himself in a cellar for 6 months or so.

Anyhow, I know a couple of people in Frisco and that’s something. Down here they know I am hermitage and leave alone. One thing about L.A. people, they so hose-high you don’t mingle, they cut u turkey cold. Good for me, this place.

Sherman much admires u, esp. ur painting, but seems wary of personal and think I, u are too much for him. well, listen, I am going down to the bar. I should clean this place up, ah well.

say listen cous’, I must drink and smoke at 4:30 am, there is nothing more circumspect unless we withdraw into the cloud of mallard. the [point] of this letter is that the dullness of the welt is forgotten for the nascency of much gift of robgrov and gobble the golden word, the laughter basting our rotten white bones, Pound as alive as a rat 3000 ad, myself writing this, smoking a cigarette, early this time, 10:34 pm closing, mailing whenever
the hell. A sound just went off in my mind and all is raw and I must sleep, I way or the other.

may all the gords and gods
tinkle things goosegigberry gophers
be urs,

      whatever that means,

            Charles Bukowski

             
Charles

ps—Sherman phoned last night (I haven’t mailed this yet) at 2 a.m., drunk, collect. I have unlisted fone but gave him my number. “I saw Sheri. She’s all right, you know that? Sheri’s all right. Met her husband too. Real nice guy. Saw your poem in
Quicksilver
, the one about the doves,
man. Great, real great. ‘I’ll have them in the pan by 2:30.’ Don’t worry about the call. I’ll pay you. I’m coming down there, I’m going to win on the horses, will dump it all in your lap. Stan’s coming down. I’ll be down the 16th. Don’t clean the place up. Leave the bottles, the rats, you on the bed smoking, sheets of paper all over. Jesus, I can’t write, I can’t write at all. Saw
Hitchcock
, I said, ‘How ya doin’ you son of a bitch?’ Saw x of Grove Press, he asked to see my work. ‘What you want’ I asked, ‘the published or unpublished?’ ‘Both’, he said, ‘both.’ Saw—etc., etc.”

Sherman quite a boy, that. going out to mail this. hope you got the Payne correspondence by now. c.b.

6/july/60 s.m. 15 lynch st. to buk/

ah zay Buk/ dozzzz zum letter…ah got this a.m.—met mailman out on street very early doing laundry & rec. yr letter to decode while machine went swhoos

1st a note on Jory Sherman:

young girl at bar in
Bagel Shop
wearing sleezy thin peek-a-boo black whorey dress, drunk…so drunk as she got up to leave her little pink hands cd hardly hold her up…they kept groping for bar like blind things…poor girl…her heels were run-down in back & her shoes were suede & she’d been out on “Neurotic Park” beach with some filthy dirty sluts of drunken men…she looked like a whore in dress & shape & mussed hair & drunkenness…all but for her poor face…too young…too blind…too bewildered…she made me sick I cd hardly keep from fainting dead away…at her tragedy…I mean Dusty yevsky…but not for me…I cannot bear the pain…and her coat was half off her plumb pink shoulders peeking through that whore’s cheap filmy black sheer dress…and Jory was sitting on the edge of the piano with his sneakered feet up on the chair…talking about Bukowski…& I called his attention to the lost girl…and some drunk came in for her & her pocketbook to take her to a car…& that was when I saw her lost hands blindly groping for a spot to guide herself by…and Jory…as tho’ it were Mrs. Pound herself…got up…still talking over his shoulder…about Buk…& naturally oh very naturally…the way Ezra in St. Liz used to be talking about Ovid or Dante…or Homer…or even Roosevelt or Churchill…wd keep talking & go over to the large tree & piss up against it…still talking about poetry or politics or art…so Jory…kept talking about Buk & he helped the poor drunken girl…on with her little coat…& she was led…out to a car where she got in…to torment my mind…

now…but Jory’s a gentleman…naturally…not trying to “fool” buk…of course we are all in hell…but there is an extenuating circumstance…for Sheri hath “seen a vision”…yr story about the portfolio…is a hilaritas…but sad too…that is way of the hilaritas…to construct itself on tragedy…like a crystal forms…all right if Buk wants to go on record “listing my ills, snakebite-carnaval, thistle, dilucidate…” then Buk will do so…& Sheri will keep the records straight

I didn’t really believe I cd lure the wary solitary fierce gloaming creature inhabiting Buk’s psyche…to
EVER
send anything up to Pearson at Yale but one must honourable say that such a collection exists…glare as ye will O Buk’s Psyche—ah will juz go on…tryin’ to fo’m a na’n’l mind…like a great mud
pie…please Cous’ dont piss on my mud pie…dont understand large words…“gimbals & rooks distorting polysyndeton” wot iz? knew Pollack when was in
Heyter’s Atalier de Set
or how hellspell…(etching & engraving…& P. kept appointments at round table…very very drunk & very very well mannered…as the yg awt student recalls)

You have green eyes…gramps will rage with jealousy…he was to date the
ONLY
green oyed boet…in eggsistence (his spelling)

yew iz at th’ top right now—Buk…if I come down there…ah will convince you…and also…ah will attempt to get you to fo’m a na’n’l mind with me…somehow ’r other…

oh yew spellin’ is worsen gramps if such be possible…his’n worse/n yr’n.

Yes/ we are in “hell” &
gramps said:
“ya’ kant git outta hell innna hurrrry”…let us try to remain here as long as possible…just to fool the demons.

that wild description of new orleans…yes…I understand “I mention things sometimes through nerves & flow of word not entirely felt by socket & shekinah of self” but wot iz “shekinah” wot? wot? iz “shekinah”? all right Fry redeemed by Buk…“not agin’ Pound but against me…” but she is still incorrect…because men like you…who can feel…are precisely what the Cosmos is trying to destroy…hence yr anguish…Fry’s duty to stand inbetween Buk & Cosmos…the petals of the flower fall off when the time comes…nature destroys her perfections so mankind may never imitate them…she leaves no examples…ezra might as well wail on the wailing wall…for the
knights temp.
to return…as to wail for
Jeff & Adams…
the time that was…is now legendary…and a new time come down on us…New India…give it 500 years…

as for “nymphos”…they do not exist—the animal is not made that way…it is a dream of a difference…at any degree…to make up for lack of a natural talent…one has heard enough about poor ol’ Fry to know she is tryin’ too hard…and the coloured boys in the jailhouse who got time to wig it out say: “man, dont try…if ya haffa try…”

Do forgive…one has no right to be speaking about a female one dont know…but one does know the female pattern…it is rumoured she is trying to hook my dear friend
David R. Wang…
to him…she wd be a lost…sad…creature…the Chinese worship propriety…the “Puritans” were the
BEST
ballin’ people this country has yet seen…all else is based on their hot natures…toned down by prot.rel….gawd…if they hadn’t been christers…we’d have built an eastern empire…Fry is way off…anyhow…the introduction of sex habits since the w.w.1 from france…brought home by the farm pop….is indication of lack of both love
AND
sex…and mere friction taking over…poor Fry…she had to be so “hip” she went through the telescope & fell out on what you’d call the square end…oh do forgive…this broad…is being too daring right now…sorry Couz…but maybe…cd help…to see from female point of view…iz all right to “read a female ass…” not cruel…my dear Buk…you haven’t spoken an
UN
truth yet…& only that wd be cruel…women get their message through their psyche…but I grant they do wag their butts now ’n then when they aint certain of their psyches…I have even been caught doing it…in a loose moment…& place

dear Buk/ this is
YOUR
life—dammit…if you want to write a poem sitting on a woman sitting in a chair reading the funnypapers…then
DO
it…just do it because another woman will come along & she’ll want to read poetry…we always work now & live now…for what going to jump off but we aint aware as yet…

it
DOES COHERE
—it does…it does…it does…yes yew iz part of E.P. & yes I have “lived” & still am…and he read me
Dante,
Villon,
Guido
, the
Kuan Tzu
, the
Sacred Edicts
, Ovid…& lots of other things…& seduced me whilsts he read…sweet Gramps…Charles you are so violent you terrify me…
“one sheet in closet…alone”
you are most sad person…well…Lamb…you are becoming a legendary figure with the yg poets…sittin in yr bassilica…or howhellspell…yesssss I kno’ I zound like a ruddy “repu. conv…” but dammit…ah has mah gig…man & I know…that a na’n’l mind wd save us all a lot of time & anyhow…the thought of New India & what they will prob. do to the gold-skinned chicks in the next 400 years…hurts my soul…I got to do something or I shall also…be facing empty beer cans…or worse…Charles…you do not know how tender most of the females are…even dear Ol’ Fry has a tender spot I’m sure…I cannot sit here & forget that they are asking me…from the future to guarantee them a spot…a job to do, something to hold onto…like no one gave us…I will get through to my rep. con. nat. mind…the idea of the female…Buk…you just got to put up with it…because gramps says ah iz never wrong even…when ah aint wrong ah iz right…all right you take over “where gramps left off” because any form given to me will be passed on to the tender females of the New India of the next 2000 years & they will adore you Buk & wish themselves back into the past to pick up yr beer cans & remove some of the “bang bang bang” violence from thy heart…yr harem…Sheri’s New Indians…“and the republican convention national mind” oh gawd…but dammit Buk…
WHEN U ARE THE LIGHT IT IS NATURALLY DARK ALL AROUND YOU…BUT THAT DON’T MEAN YEW IZ IN “THE DARK…” IT IS MILES WITH HIS RUDDY ZUNZHINE THAT IS IN THE DARK…YEW IZ IN THE LIGHT
…or at least yew iz a light bulb…that the cosmic electricity is burning up at a terrible speed…“bang bang bang” (a shoot-um-up) of course…it will all be lost…my dear Buk…that’s the fun of it…to do it anyhow…you are talking to a Tree that knows her leaves will fall & vanish into dirt…but the pattern remains…“the dream remains”…

the
IDEAS
we are having via letter…is what my New Indians will cherish…I ask you to love them as I do…because they will be getting their little poor hands chopped off for stealing bread…whereas…you & I…have to now…been enjoying a freedom they will not know…please help me love the phantom children…now & then I see a pair of green eyes in a gold face…so absolutely…not…Buk…I iz aint gonna let nobody die…while I am the Queen of the Beats…I am seated upon the right hand side of the high Prince of the Innermost Hell & far from my Paradise…& I do know…but right under his lousy nose…I’m not gonna let anybody die…& where they will send me from here…for this crime…oh I donno…donno…I am eating my pomegrante seeds & spittin’ them in his chops…do not reveal my position or all’s lost…lost…lost…that is why I cuss’s Miles…he wanted to broadcast my position…

Heaven & Hell are split second next to one another…in one sentence it is possible to live in both…but what is not possible…is to remain in one or the other…for longer than that split second…donno why…

all right “no spartan rules” for Buk to shoot down…but must “discipline spirit” or my matter will go plumb to hell…in the earthly sense…I mean I will fall apart…man I am a New York City chick…& I go to hell real easy…alls ya gotta say is boo…& there I am…on the street…Bad Street havin a ball…“a Street Princess”—

god help the rooohoooshuns when they taste american whiskey…it will eat holes in their national mind…

dear Buk…I mean “education” the way gramps meant it…he had one hand on my breasts & one eye on me…& one hand on Ovid’s Metamorph & one eye on th’ book & his mouth on mine…dear Educational Gramps.

now we to Jory in yr letter/