Beerspit Night and Cursing

by Charles Bukowski

  The trouble with shaking Ernie from abstracts to classics, is, of course, that you are doing the shaking. May I say that he will have to shake himself?

  The trouble with Payne is that he wants to be dominant but is not really dominant at all, but a borrower. Still, yes, he is better than the average man you will pass on the sidewalk. For it all, let’s give him a nod. He did scratch at Gramps, but this seems to be getting to be a popular pastime and I think it’s about time somebody went the other way around. Gramps is there and there is not much we can do with him. HE does with us. I always knew Pound was strong and there is a certain sense of this strength in me, although not the talent. But I admired the strength. It was like a dog smelling another dog’s asshole, spiritually. And for the ten years I did not write, I also lived another 7 of those years with a woman who was also very strong in HER way. And I was the fool, drunk, drunk, drunk, throwing full glasses of whiskey against the walls (and I drank my whiskey in tall waterglasses, no water) and I’d curse and PUT ON but only put on to make sound like a man on stage in a very dull time, and I’d fall to the rug unable to walk anymore, but still the world dancing, and I’d holler at my woman from the dust of the rug: “God damn it, I am a GENIUS, don’t you understand? Don’t you know what a GENIUS iz? Hell, LOOK at me! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!!!!!”

  “Yeah,” she’d say from her spot on the couch, those beautiful nylon legs and spikes, “you and your god damned Ezra Pound.”

  “And your Whit Burnett. And ya know what they did to Whit Burnett, don’t you? They LOCKED him up!!! But Whit had your number! I’ll never forget what he once told you: “ALL YOUR PEOPLE SEEM TO DIE IN THEIR OWN EXCRETIA!’”

  I am afraid both Whit, and that lady, had my number.

  Something by Handel on radio now. Believe he was German Jewish, I could look it up. The German-Jewish is an unfortunate strain because they are two direct causes working in one person, one against the other. Hitler and Muss realized this. I am not political, but I will admit actualities, or what I believe to be actualities, to myself. But as Neitz said, “Give me a German stallion and a Jewish mare!” Well, that makes a terrific bedpiece, but the child-to-be-born is in for a set of fits. I may be incorrect about Handel’s Jewish strain, but still, it was somebody. Doesn’t matter. I have the books about thirteen ft away. Indolent.

  Gib shows great strength for his youth which can not be laid off entirely to the Chinese race. However, it is difficult for me to understand the young; although there is a certain majesty and force that some attempt to claim with Age, although their only weakness was lacking the guts to die. Age, by itself, is useless: so many of our trees grow crooked.

  When I say Em is son of Got, I mean Jesus was Jewish and Jesus was the son of Got, or so the fable goes. When I said Em was son of Got, I meant in formula sense and not in essence.

  Everything is not hopeless and useless. Sometimes you meet a basically sound person completely webbed in. It is an admirable experience. And the best thing about these “rare ones” as I like to think of them, is that they do not WRITE or PAINT or postulate, they are simply ripped and walking on, AWARE. You can’t find too many of these, but they rate far above the Shermans, the Webbs, the Paynes.

  You are, I can see by your letter, in low spirit today. You go get your sun. Even get burned a little. But, Shed, you aren’t any “flop”. That is the first time you ever hurt me, talking like that. You are Sappho 1961, and just because nobody or no one tells you this, you keep climbing your walls and your cats and your Buks,

  we are with you, alla us

  crapas,,

  LOVE,

  Buk

  [handwritten:] p.s.—Lost pen again. Article u sent enclosed. Hope so.

  L.A., mid Jan. 1961

  Oye, “Whiskus”:

  Your abstract-letter Emie,—I guess it can be bitter. You dedicate Ern with imaginaries (some anyhow) when he is near, but distance breaks the spell. Still, Gib’s right: go easy; you measure us all in a Poundian-shadow.

  The difference between being subtle and abstract is the difference between knowing and saying it in a gentler way and not knowing and saying it in a way that will let you off the hook. To be abstract with the word is all right if you use it like paint and seek the pure word, but it is difficult, in the language, to have near purity without near meaning.

  I am eating cooked shrimp and green onions and drinking beer as I write this, so it is very enjoyable; but I could not write a poem this way. If the paper gets greasy, you’ll know why.

  Headline of Kennedy speech: I DO NOT SHRINK FROM THIS RESPONSIBILITY. Is he SUPPOSED TO?

  And Frost out there blubbering his poem, blind and white in the snow. Jory-Shermanizing himself. I’d like to see them catch Jeffers on that hook. No, they couldn’t. Not enough bait.

  IT’S NICE TO KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, EVEN WHEN YOU ARE LATE.

  Got a letter from a prof in the English dept. of Louisiana State University: “…have finally made up our minds that you are one of the two men working today whose poetry may last a long long time.”

  Some other things said. One strength of his is that he is not at all swayed by the University Poets.

  However, they are sure baiting the hook for me, trying to get me fathead and sure and dull. I answered Mr. Corrington and told him that a man can go to bed being a poet on Wednesday night and awaken on Thurs. morn and not be a poet at all. You can’t credit a future in an insensitive and desperate world that can make blathering and blubbering idiots outa

  Hems and Faulks, Millers kissing Monroe hems

  Barrymore, fat and dull as a hog, not even saved by his whiskey, stamping all over Hamlet to the delight

  of a radio-fat audience; Wilde getting punchier and queerier

  and dearier; Tschaikovsky living with an insane women in an

  attempt

  through marriage to prove he was not homo; Dostoievsky at the

  roulette

  wheel or bearded, raping a child; what the hell, well well well:

  Dos Passos and Koestler making adjustments to the weakening

  of the

  communist cause in U.S. due to war and end of depression and

  general

  tiring of enthusiasm of people who expect things to jell all at

  once.

  [handwritten in margin:] the dead and the living mixed here, I realize.

  Oh, on the “making up of minds”…this was not L. State U. but Mr. C and his wife’s. Without playing big mr. modest I would guess that both Mr. and Mrs. are in their twenties. Early enthusiasms can lead to pregnancy and miscarriage.

  What is this Nora? You’d better work on her. She seems the weakest member of your tribe. Or send her down, and if she’s bween 11 and 61, I’ll make love to her. I guess she’s reading the fancy mags trying to get fancy. But the triers are stuck in the tar-pits.

  THOSE WHO DON’T TRY MAKE IT ANYHOW BECAUSE THEY ARE RELAXED ENOUGH TO SEE.

  Gib’s ok, I can sense that,

  but ahm glad he didn’t write, I have so few hours,

  playing the ponies,

  and an occasional turn on the springs,

  and the black bat of doubt flapping his wings

  throughout my small sleep…

  Gib’s.

  awright

  but right now

  I’m timed down to the last tick,

  and one more mind

  good as it might be

  could break the back of my thinking,

  and by thinking I don’t mean strain

  but I mean growing, as the leaves, better every morning,—

  green for brown and wither,

  the water beer sunlight

  eyow!:

  singing songs sometimes.

  I am not a cool pops…But do not remember my “armada” over yr cliffs…

  The problem is not to “conquer loneliness” but the weakness of self that imagines the world is something else…and better…in the crowd.

  I am never bothered
with loneliness. I am sorry, but it is so.

  Must Ez throw you over finally? Without a say of whyfore and whatn hell or where? I could do this with another poet but not with a lady who knew my smile.

  I think I am a little different than Pound because I can feel “left out” and it does not fk hurt me. I realize that the critical and spiritual world that is cannot possibly be enough if I am burning my fire correctly. If they can see me NOW what the hell are they going to see next Tuesday morning when they tire of the obvious?

  Of course, I realize that all women are not sacred. Did I infer this? I held down the same corner barstool in a Philly bar for 5 years. And yet ah I found a lot of the sacred cows going to bed with the pretense-bulls every night…These were good women and they were sorry for me and they laughed at me, which was more than the stale neighborhood women with their stale husbands could do.

  C. Day Lewis in the Sat. Ev. Post explaining to the crowd how poetry is written. Charles McCarthy Lewis sitting on the knee of the mob.

  Jory Sherman on my telephone phoning editors and writers:

  “This is Jory Sherman. I just got into town. I’m over at Charles Bukowski’s…”(This some months back but I have not forgotten.)

  I don’t know about Cl. Major. He accepted some stuff of mine once and then heard through the grapevine that I was a son of a bitch, so he returned it. Then much later came a rather abject letter of apology, asking to see more of my work. So I sent him some more and he took it, only this time he had to return it because his mag had folded. His wife divorced him or something. And before this, a great long letter to Trace stating that anybody could and SHOULD publish a literary magazine. It seems to me that Major is stumbling all over his feet in every direction in an attempt to get there. He’s in heavy with Wang and they build each other up, meanwhile quabbling over “White-supremacy” to give them a bit of cud to chew about.

  The “grapevine”, meanwhile, that told Major I wasn't any good, has accepted 3 of my poems.

  It’s a mess. These boys get stuck in the tars and jellies. And they too would be glad to read a patriotic poem at inauguration, or Saturday Evening Post the public. No wonder I look up to Jeffers.

  Tired this morning. Must really stop. Shrimp and onions gone, will pursue the beer.

  oke,

  Buk

  Frost said, “The deed of gift was the deed of many wars.” Poetic blather. This country won some struggles for POWER. Why dress it up in Sunday clothes?

  Buk

  Jan. 20 ’61

  [postcard]

  Dear Sheri—

  rec. yr good letter, answering Sunday.

  No, can’t anger on your opinion of D. Thomas because when I read him I very often get an odd feeling that all is not well. But when I found out he drank himself to death, his stock went up with me—which is not a reasonable or sensible surmise of poetic talent, I’ll agree.

  …it is possible that Jory writes because he wants to be famous and not because he wants to write.

  This is (wuz) one of your best letters. I think it’s good for you up there, away from the crowd. You and cat on mantle, in front of the clock, and the vines are climbing in my brain.

  sure,

  Buk

  1/30/61

  [handwritten postcard]

  Dear Sheri:

  Read A and P in one sitting. Much good; you deserve an angel if he would not spoil you…Murakami has a good purity, and yet sees pretty straight. Richer stretches the point. On Major I get the feeling (in his poetry) that not everything happens to him that he claims…Po’ Li knows what the hell’s happening, Gumbiner is too bright for me. Sherman just wrote another “poemy” poem. Sam L. Lewis poem perfect without pretense, American Education, yes, a good picture. E.P. Walker much better in “Sheri” than in his poetry….and you scratched Norman and Buk pretty good…if Major can live another 10 years and get over his enthusiasms and stop worrying about sleepin’ wit the white gals, an’ stop havin’ heros and heroines and stop havin’ money dreams and dreams of fames, he mite write somethin’.

  L, Buk

  (p.s.—Yes, Murakami good like bamboo, delicate but strong)

  [SM sent this undated enclosure with an inscribed copy of her book; the proper names are titles of her paintings.]

  I have this extra copy of the La Martinelli book of paintings that Mr. Pound kindly had printed for me…and I want you to accept it.

  The work is all from the past 10 years & it is all now scattered around the world. The little clay head in front is now with Ezra in Italy…The St. Liz Madonna is in London…the Giotto is with Ez in Italy…The Patria is with him also…the Cleofe Santa is with my middle sister…the Isis is at Castle Brunnenberg in the Tirolo…the Daw oo is up at Yale in the collection there…the Chi’ang is with my younger sister…the Ra Set is in Rapallo with Mrs. Pound…the Leucothoe also with Ezra & the portrait…& the artist is over in Tunitas Creek…a likely spot for one.

  I want to write: “the grooviest” post master but I cdn’t recall how one spells “grooviest” so erased & wrote as is & do mean it/

  Sheri M.

  Los Angeles

  Feb. 6, 1961

  Dear Sheri:

  Thank you for St. Benedict and olibanum and La Martinelli, copy #377. If you grow angry with me, as is sometimes your wont, I will return the 3 to you as I do not wish to posess anything of yours that will spoil your spirit or cause regret; but meanwhile, assuming that we are still on terms, I accept these fine gifts with honor and with love.

  I have been very ill, but St.’s around my neck, so maybe things will change. Can you imagine Buk, the great Hun, walking around the block on a Sunday, asking the sun to warm him back to life?

  I liked your Cleofe Santa and then Ra Set but the paintings are hard to separate because the main source remains similar. Which means you have not bothered to lie.

  Re Major: it disturbs me to think that M. believes modern poets prefer Ray Charles to Mozart, especially when he is discussing Bukowski. It also disturbs me to believe that Major would think Bukowski is the type who would come right out and say: “ssssssssssshit it’s beautiful!” And if Major in his fantasy wants to screw white girls in the park, why hell, let him do it, of course. Only I would say it shows weakness of soul. Major is full of enthusiasms, young enthusiasms, about art and people and ideas, and when this wears thin, as it must, I wonder where he will stand? Murakami, on the other hand, is tough but good. He drinks the world, touches it, walks away from it, enjoys it, despises it, then sits down and says: “…it is so.”

  I got no Uncle Leon; I got Buk, and that’s it.

  Yes, he who keeps tenderness is strong…if he does not wear it like a medal.

  The rape business is all too much for me. I return clipping as per request.

  If you want to use drawings in next A and P with comments, sure, ok, only I don’t remember too much what they were about, only got the idea after mailing them that you might think me vulgar tho I only meant a kind of Confucian fun-poking about the obvious.

  What do the trees sing, Sheri? What do the trees say? I think it good, I think it best if we do not quite understand the song or the words.

  I am still pretty weak and will close this one early.

  New Orleans Webb asked for some new poems, and I wrote him off 5 or 6 new ones yesterday which I must now type up and send off.

  “The whore of Denver

  or the koo-koo bird

  will never know

  what makes us carry

  carry on so…”

  loooove,

  Charles the Buk

  8/feb/61 s.m. pobx 46 san gregorio calif

  dear buk/ the presents are now yrs forever & don’t return no matter WHAT I say or do/ yes St. will help—Of course I can imagine the Sun supplicated to warm the great Hun…as Sun is the Greater Hun of you two/ you must mean “Isis” and not “Ra Set” as no Ra Set yet in print…but got one on wall currently trying to finish

  LISTEN LET ME USE YR OBJECTIO
N TO CLARENCE MAJOR’S MISCONCEPTIONS IN FORTHCOMING A & P WILLYA?? I AGREE WITH YOU I’D LEAVE OUT ANY REMARKS YOU WANT BUT TO CORRECT THE MOZART BIT & “SHITTTT’S BEAUT…ETC” IS IMPORTANT…I CDN’T AT TIME AS THERE WAS TOO MUCH OF ME ALREADY IN but you can now via letter straighten the yg chappie…yes Murakami is tough but there is a civilisation in Japan…& cannibalism in Africa—transplaning cannibals does not change their inborn paideumic (culture-cells) patterns

  Maj eats Art whole/ etc white girls—but that is a social pattern—actually it is status & not sex prompting it/ it wd be very dangerous for a white girl to marry a black or brown man right now because when race war comes his status wd change & he’d sacrifice her in a shot

  yes Masa is a beautiful soul…yr drawings are excellent & I’d send you a proof sheet before printing so’s you cd see if yr comments are wot you mean…they are very funny & disdainful in a witty way/ never think you “vulgar”

  Babe—none of us can figure out wot the trees are saying…we just hear them talk & sing/ I heard them say “sheri” but that’d be fanciful/ once when the female next cot[tage] was contemplating suicide…I went out down path & Tree sang in my ear & I thot it was female coming to bother me on my seagazin’ & turned & saw no one & hot foot’d it over & in time to save weeping drinking girl…That time I clearly heard a human voice singing a beautiful melody & right in my ear…first coming up from behind me & then in ear & then all around me—very scary—but lovely humming melody such as a girl wd make who was on way over to neighbor to warn of her coming…but a beautiful cultured girl…a dear sweet melody—after that…the Tree snorted once…no 2cd at me/ the time they spoke in english it seemed to be a male & a female & the male was telling the female to put something or other on a counter—it was loud & clear & very much in english & the female said something that I cant recall

  Their songs sound (accord. to the others & me too) like “Hollywood movie music for a spooky movie” question is: “HOW do those hollywood people know the exact sound IF they’ve never heard it?” very interesting question