A Conclusion
far from it,
how can he be
a richard brautigan?
tried Bukowski
but at the end
he repeats the
line: who the hell
is Bukowski?
he begins again
saying: hey i am.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Know That You Still Love Me...
between shakespeare
and bukowski
i prefer bukowski
brautigan smells better
than shelly
this is my way of telling you
that i am shallow and cheap
on the other hand when i
begin to write like
bukowski and brautigan
combined
i know that somehow in that
academic pretense of yours
you still like me and read a lot
about what i write
inside your room
when you are all alone
and then
with affection
you kiss every word
that you think i do not really mean
writing
and then
you giggle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chinaski's Smiling
I reach
for the
tattered book
off of my toilet
tank, and
think...,
'Wouldn't
Bukowski
be proud'
Blurred,
sunken eyes
and rotted,
coffee-stained
teeth
'Wouldn't
Bukowski
be proud'
Crapping,
with the
Stench
of death
surrounding me
'Wouldn't
Bukowski
be proud'
Another hard-fought
battle with the bottle
And still: I'm
sucking in air....
'In with the good-
out with the bad'
Bukowski's dead.
Soon, I'll be dead.
Death
doesn't
have
pride
Ask Elvis.
Ask Chinaski
Believing Bukowski
amazing bukowski
dead
buried,
i give up reading
him
and his poetry
something in him
tells me
that i am better
than him
not that i write so well
but he says
if i were to be better
than him or
anybody else
there is only one thing
that i must do
be myself
and believe in
myself
great bukowski
you are original
idol.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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San Francisco
This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard
Brautigan in a laundromat in San Francisco. The author is unknown.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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Prayer In Bad Weather
by God, I don't know what to
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Never get out of bed before noon.
quote by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Shower
we like to shower afterwards
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Night I Was Going To Die
the night I was going to die
poem by Charles Bukowski
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I Am Visited By An Editor And A Poet
I had just won $115 from the headshakers and
was naked upon my bed
listening to an opera by one of the Italians
and had just gotten rid of a very loose lady
when there was a knock upon the wood,
and since the cops had just raided a month or so ago,
I screamed out rather on edge—
who the hell is it? what you want, man?
I’m your publisher! somebody screamed back,
and I hollered, I don’t have a publisher,
try the place next door, and he screamed back,
you’re Charles Bukowski, aren’t you? and I got up and
peeked through the iron grill to make sure it wasn’t a cop,
and I placed a robe upon my nakedness,
kicked a beercan out of the way and bade them enter,
an editor and a poet.
only one would drink a beer (the editor)
so I drank two for the poet and one for myself
and they sat there sweating and watching me
and I sat there trying to explain
that I wasn’t really a poet in the ordinary sense,
I told them about the stockyards and the slaughterhouse
and the racetracks and the conditions of some of our jails,
and the editor suddenly pulled five magazines out of a portfolio
and tossed them in between the beercans
and we talked about Flowers of Evil, Rimbaud, Villon,
and what some of the modern poets looked like:
J.B. May and Wolf the Hedley are very immaculate, clean fingernails, etc.;
I apologized for the beercans, my beard, and everything on the floor
and pretty soon everybody was yawning
and the editor suddenly stood up and I said,
are you leaving?
and then the editor and the poet were walking out the door,
and then I thought well hell they might not have liked
what they saw
but I’m not selling beercans and Italian opera and
torn stockings under the bed and dirty fingernails,
I’m selling rhyme and life and line,
and I walked over and cracked a new can of beer
and I looked at the five magazines with my name on the cover
and wondered what it meant,
wondered if we are writing poetry or all huddling in
one big tent
clasping assholes.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Luck
once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
poem by Charles Bukowski
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This
self-congratulatory nonsense as the
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Humanity, you never had it to begin with.
quote by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's possible to love a human being if you don't know them too well.
quote by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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