Beerspit Night and Cursing

by Charles Bukowski

  anyway it can be made

  and at any price,

  and you can only pay the price so many times

  before there’s nothing of you left, and then those

  even those lower that you have been riding with

  will shove you out

  because there’s nothing left nothing

  even for them, and

  before you were Prince of a rat’s nest

  and now you’re not even a good

  comrade rat.

  and don’t you go slipping me no god damned educational material, I got an education of my own, mostly all at once one night, sitting in the dark in a paper shack freezing my balls finding out that Art was Atlanta at 5 degrees above, a green loaf of bread and a light cord without a light. I found out that Art was not essentially a piece of paper with a poem on it or a piece of ass with a name; I have found out that ART IS FACING HORROR WITH DIGNITY AND INTELLIGENCE. Ginsburg and Wang figure Art is a byline or a dedication or a sound in a state college newspaper put out by an undergraduate who doesn’t know any better. Ginsburg and Wang are so much wood for burning, a bit of smoke to be later blown forever away.

  Moy x-wife Barbara Fry is still trying to shove off her novel, but she writes like a god damned snob just finished reading the classics, and it’s a wonder we lasted 2 years together. I am mud and earth and she is tinsel and practice, but worse—the way she writes is not the way she is. She is not strong enough to be either one—a writer or a liver.

  tonight now I am hearing original music from india

  I like this because I have not been schooled in it and the sounds enter directly and I am like a child with a new toy, and there is much involvement and eflat depth here with 3 or 4 simple instruments. Since I cannot come up to you, you and Gib must come to L.A.

  Whalen has an “in” somewhere and is only known in San Francisco where they turn him out like daily sausage. Sherman is garnering an audience and a “name” with his persistence. His poems are entirely not like his personality which is toothache shattering. Pound has been accepted in college halls which is rather discouraging. It happened too early. There should have been more rebel-bite. And now it’s up to somebody else to carve mad ivory in the laughter. I do not know where we are going to find him but the need is there. Major is too bitten with self-love, skin-color and the need to succeed. He would rather see his name in lights than drink a can of beer, smile, light a cigarette and wait wait because the sun is gone.

  Where’s the H.D. book, baby? You forgot? and the red shirt? and the herbs? I lit the little stones the other night under a mess of leaves, but mostly I was taken with the pure flame of the fire instead of the essence which I got later when the fire was out and which kissed my old bones and I felt good. Thank you, Sheri, you are awful good to Buk sometimes bringing him bits of magic and though you are cruel you are sometimes overtaken by good and you cannot help it: you are more German than I. I am an old beergarden german in love with music and fire I am not the tough-helmet bastard ready to plow the guts out of the enemy—although, if necessary, I am ready. Which a seven foot bartender found out one night when I chased him all over town with a very small pocket knife. His fear was as great as my anger and although I never caught him he will remember me forever and not as a poet.

  McClure I don’t know. A lot of them I don’t know, and I thank god for that. Down where I’m working now they gather around me they don’t know about the poetry but they smell something working I don’t say anything but no matter what table I sit at here they come sitting around me and I don’t want them. And a Mexican says to me—“Where’s the greatness? You hate everybody, you don’t have any friends. I don’t understand.” He is a pretty good boy and I like him because he is trying to think. “I have never claimed to be great,” I tell him. “Yeah,” he says, “but I see Noel looking up at you, I see his eyes shining. I see the others. They think you are somebody. What is it?” and I say, “Vasquez, for Christ’s sake or mine, give me a cigarette, you are getting on my nerves.” And he lights me up and I look down on the flame and puff in and I can feel the whole world run up my arms, into my shoulders, my chest, my heart, where I will spit it out as a poem.

  “Who do you like in the 6th. race tomorrow?” Vasquez asks.

  “Lightning Don will be just about ready. They’ve found a spot for him and a distance. The odds will be 6 to one.”

  ok, love Buk bukowski

  April 8

  [postcard with drawing of CB in angry concentration]

  Deah Shed:

  ok not to write if moonrays messing up tide. I am putting my personal hex on all orders groups and individuals who are messing in your soup.

  ok now.

  L.,

  bukoOWWWWWSSskiiiiiiiii, chas.

  Buk

  Los Angeles, Calif.

  April 12th., 1961

  Dear Sheri:

  I can’t come up to you if I don’t know where you’re at. Some hotel in town, or I don’t know where San Gregorio’s at or where your shack is at. You forget Buk is mostly now los angeles boy; doubt if I could even find Frisco—just point my car that way with its thin tires and hope.

  Besides this, got old woman tailing me eating my minutes. Don’t know what to do with her, don’t want to hurt her; but that is another problem and I don’t want to bother you with it.

  Oye, Shed, what a mess you had; first with brother in law and then with bitch and her broodlings. I am sorry I was not there…to take you off somewhere and assure you quietly that you are a goddess alive and that they are dung.

  It is difficult when you don’t have a dollar to find status or even voice with the money-grubbers. I lived for years on air and whiskey, beer without any visible means of support, and many times they cut me and lashed me from behind their fat dollar bills. That is why I try to hold the silly job I have now: to give me a wall to work behind.

  I am trying to get caught up on some things here now; pick myself up off the floor.

  Sheri, baby, I am sorry for what they put you through, but I don’t think it’s my time to come up there. I am writing poems and drinking beer and trying to buy a shack, and seem to be getting nothing done. Except think I wrote a fair one last night. Up all night. Should clean this place. Dishes in sink, paper, clothing on floor. I cannot seem to right myself.

  They had some kids running in this place, 2 fat ones, up and down the steps, slamming doors PLANG!!!! Bring me on lance-nerve ends out of sack like rocket. Then Oakie with door open playing Oakie music. I get out my hex-sack, shuffle around torn mutuel tickets and sod from dead dog’s dreams, and now they are gone…the whole lot of them. But besides the hex-sack, I spoke very gently to manager in hushed shocked tones. I am an old fox, Shed, fighting wearies me. You can’t fight the mob, Shed, because you must fight in mob-language and the fuzz only understands mob-language; the fuzz is mob and soulless; when they drag in the fuzz you just have more enemy, armed, shaven and well-rested. They called the fuzz on me one night—I had a gal in here, drinking and what—this so-called respectable place. They going to run me in but I kept chain on door and talked them away. Why don’t they leave us in peace, Sheri? They know we are really breathing, and inside, way in, they want to kill us; they can’t stand it.

  I am going to try to build up a roll on the quarter horses next week. I must get my shack, and when I do you must come see me. I will send you the money. A couple of weeks away from there will do you good. And I am a man and not a child. We need only talk, or not talk. I know you are real and that is all that matters.

  love,

  Buk

  ps—I just put another plague and a hex on ALL YOUR ENEMIES, EXCLUDING NONE. May their teeth and bones rot in the acid of my curse; may their rotten hearts flicker with the doubts and horror of unmaligned hell…look for clear skies, love, the sun is coming up…BUK

  15/aprille/61 pobx 46 s.g. cal

  buk-O: if you ever come visit then head up highway #1 (coast highway) to Tunitas Creek & it is a
bit past san gregorio; don’t give whereabouts away to ANYone not even IF ezra shd ask! that’s how much i want privacy! after san greg. about 10 min heading towards frisco you’d cross a bridge & at 1st wee dirt turn-in saying: “TEN ACRES FOR RENT” that wd be it & it is the last cot[tage] down to left/

  hotel rm is day deal & at night i go home with gib; stayed down country last 2 days & all was well/ yr hex working; the good coming out: the old care taker mr clark had fool’d us into thinking it was his ice box & we had to let back door open so he cd come & go; landlord sd it aint his & so after his conduct on ishtar day; we now can keep our doors locked & bitchass next door has to store his food in HER ice box

  now i don’t need to talk to either one of them; the gods at work????? now except for threat of their kids—i am left alone which is what i wanted; i am writing up an account of it having regained my sense of form & you’ll get a copy of course; it is hilarious looked at from a certain point of view…

  a tiny history of human beings; broLaw still a problem; what a pain in the ass these persons with inferiority mind states can be; the communist party is their refuge; gawd hellppp it when the TIME comes;

  am cool now but you can see that i was dithered; it is the fates who are trying to make me into a strong person but i cry for pappa & who aint ever here iz pops; ez wuz it for 6 yrs; gib is a wee baby inside & aint been trod on nuff yet to sqwuack back; that broLaw broke camels back; my god—he NEVER lets up; “oh ho ho crazy sheri…” etc alls i can do is what my coloured friends taught me: “YOUR MOTHER WUZ CRAZY YEW NUTDDTTT” hard & fast & back crackin…

  but he is a scared runt…who wants to poke a runt into a mud hole? i thought i was a compassionate female; i see his story…but he is DANGEROUS…it aint safe to let an entire family of strangers believe one is a “nutddd” & he is one crazy bastard by now; completely nuts on this ¼million $$$ shit when he’s bedbug flat/

  ez said: “the Lee family are part of your american education” & oh wuz he right; my AMERICAN education/ what i know about integration cd drive this country back to 1776/ it is rough—it works better when the MAN is white—a female is too inferior to have a ‘voice’ & these coloured men do not have ANY—but have seen those jap wives stompin’ in & out of dress stores whilse white-y stands patiently outside holding his 2/3 half white-ies while miss nippon thrills her female ass in der yankee doodle bargain stores—i just grin; good for the dumb bunny. Trying to find a jap wife who kow-tows iz like trying to retire in a mudhole in mexico; i mean white women are better as compassionate wives & the usa is cleaner AND cheaper than greezer & co/ any jap female who marries the sort of thing i’ve seen attached to them (what no white female wd want) is larceny hearted & dumb bunny is fooled by the tourist blurb/ & i was fooled by all those goddamm’d translations of bow-y-bow-y chop chop & it turned into slithers & money grabbers who hate us; gib is decent being half of us (but his maw sure got some low ways on her ass) oh well this all silly; maid just told me: “always take pie when pie is passed as it may not come back—” in other words go look at some dresses & get out today as i told her i was UNdecided…a new dress wd be fun…so long bukow…sheri turns female on ya…& she slithers up town to try on silkie shimmers…now all is well duckder & i dankyew fo’ yo’ hex; please keep it up as i still loathe the notion that broLaw is anywhere within walkin’ ridin’ distance/ and thank you…thank you…

  Sheri

  Los Angeles, Calif.

  April, say 16th., 1961

  in which this uncouth one

  begs unction in the shape

  of beer or sleep

  or a minor victory upon

  the hot boards.

  Deah Sharhieeee:

  Tank you for the H.D.; seems rather proper and formal to me, but I realize ingrained and worked through, a classical vendetta against the walls, and so this is needed, of course,

  as we occupy space

  Ez has the same hard control, and of course hysteria is for

  the hophead and German-Pollocks

  but I remember so many times when I went into libraries

  looking for hysteria hoping to find madness and

  disorganization

  but everything was plish and polished Art and carefulness

  and I walked out blacker than any nigger

  either the world of Art was invalid since its conception

  or I belonged someplace else. I have since worked out a compromise: if the world of Art will ignore me, I will not only ignore the world of Art but the other world also.

  And since then I have had my beer in peace—I mean, comparatively, along with wars, landlords, half-wives, lightning, cool Jory’s and the what.

  7 Poets Press is going ahead with my second book and Larsen is picking some wildflowers—I am listening to Pagliaccia, or how you spell?—

  one jew or jap or wop or german or what human being

  can contain immense suffering; I do not say this in the old

  sense

  in the prima donna sense

  like chipping away at marble and making a to-do about it, saying I’m done in I’ve had it all I’m good for is chipping in the marble of the arts

  chipping in the halls and drawing pretty prick pictures; but what I mean is what I say: one human being can pack in and

  hold

  more pain than the ocean bottom; and sometimes it’s good to

  come back from the ocean bottom of pain and not say

  too much, not be too Arty about it.

  If it has been bad enough, you are the one who knows; any need to tell the world about it is not only irregular

  but assuming a luxuriant posture. If you can say it irregulary

  or in the manner of wolves running through the forest

  I think it excusable. Now I don’t mean the hard core or form.

  Hysteria is plausible except that you may ask in a drunken

  voice

  but never beg. These are not rules, but decencies of spirit.

  And I realize that I can tell you nothing.

  I have never received a letter from you, no matter the cuss words or indignities…that was not shaped out of electric clay thousands of years old. But so much for that.

  Heard from Safford Chamberlain of KPFK who wants to have me read some of my own poetry to be taped for future broadcast material. I must tell him no. It is interesting that people know that I am alive, but I don’t think of myself as a poet

  essentially but when I do think of myself as a poet I cannot see the poet’s place as being on the stage,

  being on the stage is something else and those are other people. Hell, I realize they are all doing it: Winters, Lowell, Ransom, Tate; and Corso and Ginsburg and people like that, but I have always followed my own insides’ saying, and my insides say NO NO NO!!!!!!

  no.

  these people always claim they are trying to awaken the public to poetry like shaking the ragdoll alive, but I rather wonder if it isn’t the old ego calling, and all the pose and bullshit

  and the hard-core practiced lines out of the mould

  were nothing at all,

  and that finally they would rather be just as famous as Bob Hope.

  poets, indeed. SWINE BLATHERERS.

  Shed, when I die nobody will know it for 3 or 4 or 5 days—I have no friends, just one old woman who drinks wine—until the body starts to stink and there will be no one to bury me. But I have thought it all over. And I feel that although I am not building a monument, I am not building rot. I cannot say as much for my neighbor who has 5 kids and a large Sunday gathering of noise and who is keeping the world alive while I let it die.

  But it is odd that after saying something, making a statement, it no longer matters, as this no longer matters. And that is well, so we can get on to something else.

  I expect to live to be close to one hundred years old and by the time I am 60 I am going to begin to carve; but this is the time of proper and gentle building and watching. Strength and knowledge come thro
ugh sweat and new skins and new love, not love of woman but love of stem and the color of a coffee tin, flower and coffee gone, woman gone, old screens with holes letting in sunlight and small wild dirty flies.

  Immortality is knowing that you are finally beaten…

  Sheri, Gib is gentle and does not want trouble. If you want a fighter go to the zoo. An ape never doubts his own strength nor does he ever doubt that he is wrong. The trouble with a thinking man is that by the time he has gotten through trying to think out both sides

  he has either been talked out of it

  or clubbed to the floor

  A good motto for thinkers is: in times of doubt or danger never think, strike. The victor makes the rules of right or wrong; the thinker can only muse on the damage done and the preciousness of defeat.

  Or as Ezra might say

  KICK ’EM IN THE BALLS FIRST

  AND READ ’EM PETRARCH LATER.

  Something in the H.D. book you sent me. Think not for me. Am enclosing along with coins that were attached to it. (See within)

  I burnt your rocks. Boy oh boy you witch you beautiful spirit-witch keep me in your camp and I’ll keep you in mine, and may we never meet

  because we’ll see that we are of ordinary clay and design wear shoes blink stink desire go to the bathroom and are dull flabs of what the sky sends us down.

  Webb has not written. I told him I felt as if I were a stone in his road and to get on with the other writers. I have wanted to make him a little angry and now I have succeeded. Now we are even for him sending his son down on me in the middle of the night. I viewed his son that night and I did not see a great writer; I did see an agreeable, calm and intelligent person. I am sorry if my nerves showed a bit, but any minor status in the poetic world had nothing to do with it. I would not have been as angry if I had been faddled with by R. Jeffers, but almost.