http://dl.dropbox.com/u/15928487/mon_bbscall_2011-03-07.mp3
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I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a train and that they never were recovered. I can't match the agony of this but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem upon this computer and through my lack of diligence and practice and by playing around with commands on the menu I somehow managed to erase the poem forever. believe me, such a thing is difficult to do even for a novice but I somehow managed to do it.
now I don't think this 3-pager was immortal but there were some crazy wild lines, now gone forever. it bothers more than a touch, it's some- thing like knocking over a good bottle of wine.
and writing about it hardly makes a good poem. still, I thought somehow you'd like to know?
if not, at least you've read this far and there could be better work down the line.
let's hope so, for your sake and mine.
Charles Bukowski |
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Having the flu with nothing else to do.
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I read a book about John Dos Passos and according to the book once radical-communist John ended up in the Hollywood Hills living off investments and reading the Wall Street Journal
this seems to happen all too often.
what hardly ever happens is a man going from being a young conservative to becoming an old wild-ass radical
however: young conservatives always seem to become old conservatives. it's a kind of lifelong mental vapor-lock.
but when a young radical ends up an old radical the critics and the conservatives treat him as if he escaped from a mental institution.
such is our politics and you can have it all.
keep it.
sail it up your ass.
Charles Bukowski |
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drunk on the dark streets of some city, it's night, you're lost, where's your room? you enter a bar to find yourself, order scotch and water. damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks part of one of your shirt sleeves. It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak. you order a bottle of beer. Madame Death walks up to you wearing a dress. she sits down, you buy her a beer, she stinks of swamps, presses a leg against you. the bar tender sneers. you've got him worried, he doesn't know if you're a cop, a killer, a madman or an Idiot. you ask for a vodka. you pour the vodka into the top of the beer bottle. It's one a.m. In a dead cow world. you ask her how much for head, drink everything down, it tastes like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there, you leave the sneering bartender there.
you have remembered where your room is. the room with the full bottle of wine on the dresser. the room with the dance of the roaches. Perfection in the Star Turd where love died laughing.
Charles Bukowski |
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