Beerspit Night and Cursing

by Charles Bukowski

  One has written to Webb & one will write to him again—req. another copy besides Ollie’s—a copy for present for NHP @ Yale—

  Yes—you shd get a certain percentage just to keep the racket from getting too twisty—“unpaid whores” & so forth…

  IT i s MISS “Stop Weeping” toY O U.

  Is that the missing line: “Even lions dream?” Ollie has my copy & cant check buke // tell me is that the missing line; otherwise what?? (In clear talk man)

  I thought old Corrington’s words were silly & near ruined the effect of the buke. The colours were pleasing & some of yr verse also.

  Maybe YOU got doors in yr head but I have not. I have nothing in MY head save the highest and most sacred ideals to waft me through this Shit River wherein ALL my brothers & sisters are wallowing delighted to have something to toss at one another. I suggest you REmove those doors in the back of your head, my dear Bukowski and go get your supply of high ideals. You should read a little more H.D. Old Creaker—it wd supply the missing link in yr chain & shut those horrid, drafty doors.

  Even poets have ideals.

  Now—be a good boy & eat what the neighbors send in—

  Your loving Health carrot

  The Princess Ra Set.

  La Mart

  24. martius. 64 s.m. po bx 1044 pacifica calif [another illustrated, scroll-like letter]

  dear buk

  thank u for the coloured DRAW A LOT no I mean: the DRAWS A LOT—a far cry fr Lance a Lot or Gal ah had but as colourful—the colour pens have kept my bed-bug ego still for at least an hr…now I know what to look for to locate others…they lend a touch of anarchy to the hands—power mysteriously free-flowing with only a touch—

  nothing happens here—not even me—ernie trys to get spinoza’s words into my head but his new wife is jawlouse—yet good now got 2 middle size pups—dolls…teddybears…am v. remote today—don’t know why…in orbit i guess

  got yr 2 books—targets 15—gave ernie’s wife one copy—& read one copy & will place one copy beneath eyes of nhp…he just got bk fr mother india

  nothing o nothing new here…just love to you & encl the $ for the d r a w s—A—l o t…the new knight…am also dull today as well as remote

  will sleep now in camper until time to go—dreaming’s

  sometimes better than thinking…not all dreams…just now & then

  u didn’t write no letter zo wut kin oye a n s w e r ? I just drew some anarchistic pichurs forya

  now she lays her down to sleep on th camper floor and dreams a dream…good night dear buk…right in mid-day midtown san francisco

  fr

  Ra Set—princess of kingdom Wu Tsi Yen

  1. june. 64

  buk/ i wondered W H E R E you were—glad to know you are there—(I sent 2$ for colours to yr old address…hope you rec.)

  this yang has been black—last week was b l a c k—i think it has something to do w/the lousy music—

  no news…just walking the razor edge barefoot…painting don’t save the ass fr the fire…nor the back fr the rod

  working for an exhibit…slow grind

  life is hell…earth is hell rather & life is punishment…be good(t) then maybe god will be kare-full…god—“the master deceiver”

  all for now…we send love on wings—it will knock at yr window—open & let Love Wing In—offer fragrance & flower—and see it as the University…me ’n you at least got past grade 2—

  love, love, love,

  Sheri…cosmic scrub girl

  [postscript at top of letter:] try to drink spring water for a while & get some yeast tablets to put in the beer—yeast puts back the b vits the beer removes—(joke…just to take)

  Los Angeles, July twenty4 one9six4

  Dear Sheri:

  I am hung over, sitting here drinking a weak coffee, smoking a Salem which tastes too much like peppermint, and looking out the window. A woman like a cow has just walked by; a very discouraging sight, and as I get older things simply do not look any better. If there has been any progress in the world it is mainly in the way I walk across a room. o, my thanks, for the photographs of your paintings—very saintly and shining stuff in our improper Age.

  Well, listen, old man Webb is going to bring out another collection of my wurks—all newly written ditties which have not appeared in any of the magazines. No title yet; I seem strangely resistant to thinking one up. Anyhow, you are supposed to tell your friends and enemies to send 3 dollars to Jon Webb, 1109 Rue Royale, New Orleans 16, Louisiana, asking for the new Buk book (no title). 3 bucks is the opening price, and the only reason I huckster this way, like a shiney Jewish stockbroker, is that the old man needs the money, and he’s already shown me paper samples and wild size outlay, and it’s going to be another beauty-mad product of format inventiveness. When the New York Times (Rexroth) reviewed It Catches (July 5) he said I suffered from too good a press. This might be true: the clown may not match the advance billing or the gaudy circus tent, but this kind of suffering I don’t quite mind too much. Rex also said some people were comparing me to Homer and that I really wasn’t as good as Homer. I don’t know where he hears this crap. This type of literary chatter is best ignored, yet thot it might amuse you. Anyhow, It Catches now listed at rare book dealers at 10 dollars. Next year—the moon.

  I have moved again and am down on the ground at last. If I fall out a window drunk now I am fairly safe. I am right on the street and I type by the open window with just my shorts on and the people walk by and look in at me and I look out at them in my easy disorder or beerlight and 44 year-old agony. I’ll be 44 on August 16th. and it has been one hell of a ball. The real miracle is that I am still alive and continue to grind out the trash without pushing.

  all right now, keep the brushes wet and a stirring in the air.

  lub,

  Buk

  5. august. 64 s.m. pobx 1044 pacifica calif

  hail! bukow!

  the seed sprouts under the winter’s snow—

  re: “saintly & shining stuff in our improper age.” we are at the end of black Kali Yuga—and soon it will be springtime in our cosmos—

  Very well Buk—Po Li & SM will send their order (when we return) for yr Nameless Child & try to get the rest to do likewise—am glad you got a rev in NYC Times—Wax Roth and/or King Roth was being clever—“too good a press”—you do happen to be the only person on the scene who is NEAR to saying something when he takes his pen in hand & you have yr own way of seeing—wh is WHY yr press is good—Webb does place an odour of sanctity abt you & Wax Wrath wd not be dull enough to let it pass by his feelers—

  I can see why they’d compare you to/with Homer—because of yr direct perceptions—but, as yet, your direct perceptions are telluric (earthy) whereas Mister Homer spoke of the three worlds—the written word, what is hidden in the written word & the common understanding of what the written word meant—as yet you speak of the one world wh is—or mayhap the double world—e.g. the written word & the common understanding of what the written word means—as yet, you have not spoken THROUGH the written word to those who know & understand what the written word hides that is clear only to them. If&when you are able to do this you wd very much be like Mister Homer—H.D. has to say:

  “but if you do not even understand what words say how can you pass judgement on what words conceal?”

  What words reveal; what words conceal—

  Homer was telling an epic tale; Homer was employing direct perceptions; Homer was using the plain speech of his day and Homer was speaking of the awful journey of the soul & its terrible temptations on its way back to its true home where its faithful & true self awaited it & what was going on with its true & original self or its missing half—To the rude soldiers it was a tale true & bold; to the learned listeners it was good literature & to those who have ears it was what it was.

  And Wax Wrath knows all this too—and often employs it in his fish-wrap chats—as this reader most certainly understands—Yes—this “type of literary
chatter” does “amuse me” as it is NEWS—wd like to have read his review—if they had real sense in their bone boxes they’d put you out front—they don’t have ANY body else—Dylan split / Behan ditto—you are a VOICE / academicians don’t really have any true ability to do anything unless they are told—YOU tell him—my reputation is the wrong colour for me to do so—but some one shd—

  also glad yr bk is now worth $10. bucks—also glad you on ground floor—and 44 is when our baby teeth are being cut—@ age of one hundred and 44—we begin to know a few things for sure—

  Wet brushes! man dear—Li & I put in a 10 hr work day—5 days a week & on the week-ends it was dawn to dusk sat & sun working like ants to get work framed / painted & packed for a big exhibit—will send you any pub soon’s get any—

  am right now not painting—but things very strange and neverbefore seen stir in the deep currents of the mind sea—pre-historik images taking form now…In a few weeks we 2 taking time off & making it to a wilderness & blow off the sin skins—not even any coffee! gin sing tea for brikfasta for us now—I would sacrifice my mortal self to the Most Ancient High (air)…We taking seeds / water & herbs & spending some time there—so if you hear silence fr this end—she is in retreat & meditation—40 days in the wilderness—

  and YOU—behave yrself while maw is gone—I invoke and address the magical plants—plants that are red / those that are white / and the brown & black herbs…all these I do invoke

  Plants & herbs of the heavens! O plants and herbs I call upon you to keep guard over Charles Bukowski while his spirit sister meditates upon her sinful desires in order to purify herself for The Most Ancient High.

  O herbs your lord is Soma & you are made by Brihaspati.

  With this charm Indra kill’d Vritra & smashed Asuras & is master of Heaven & Earth…Indra, Vishnu, Savitar, Rudra, Agni, Prajapati, Parameshthin, Viraj, Vaysvanara…powerful spirits stand behind this invocation for Charles Bukowski—

  The Sun, the Wind, the Rain be with him; the fire guide him…Savitar the Saver guard him…the great Vayu…living Indra…Let him count a hundred summers…Svaha—let Sphota come…Yama! come! Thakur watch—Mahamaya watch…manomaya-kosha of blue light shot with gold flames…Svaha! cosi sia—

  there Buk—that will keep you in ice while ah melts offrf mah snake skin—AND iffn ah sells any of my “saintly & shining stuff” ah will send YOU to the wildnerness to de-louse yo’ self br’r Buk—so say yr magic prayers & incantations for this frail female—and encl some more shining forms for you to look at / we send you love and a vision of the coming of the first spring to our universe—

  Sheri

  · 1965 ·

  [undated]

  Buk moi lamb: yes please do mail me a copy of yr book—I want to send it to Jaz Laughlin (New Directions) after I read it of course—I wish he’d pick up on you—he cd if he wd—am glad you are working—to be independant—or is it independent—is the top in life—it is the edge we got on these chicken shit boys—i wish you wd take a breather from yr Low Life and find out who you really are—and employ yr $&¢ to print some of yr work—to help yrself all you can—

  don’t you know this is just ONE of yr lives on earth?? and Mr. Cayce the yogi—american yogi—said that when a soul is born with rough skin it is a sign that in a previous life that soul was overly sexual and sensual—that is you to a T—boy—and here you are livin’ it up still! Don’t you KNOW your ass will be kicked right back? Buk you got to r e - f o r m—that is what it means—take a NEW form—the trouble is that you are too bloody sophisticated—lost yr original innocence—why don’t you take a stab at the Xtian Scientists??? they—no matter how corny—are in touch with Prama—the tree sap of the universal tree of life—which has great power to heal—and bring abt a change of heart—you cd do so much if you’d drop ho’sez and who’zz and juicin—leave it for the new sinner—and you get right—get R I G H T with God(t)—save your money and DO something for the Body of Light whence cometh forth all fruits known of as poetry & art—

  nuff for now—but you hear—DO something—my god look at what the blacks are doing with their little bit of light—(plus the red fist shovin’ a hot poker up their arse of cozzz) love and re form buk!

  And do let me have a copy for to read & send to Laughlin/

  Sheri

  10. Nov 65 Bx 1044 Pacifica Calif

  dammit ALL Bukowski—where are your little set of poems that were here yesterday?????? I cant find them—they are somewhere here in my little desk—if they don’t get included in this letter then I will send them down presto pronto soon’s they stick their snouts up—

  I just got yr address from Veryl Rosenbaum—I sent her photostats of the scrolls you wrote & drew upon for me as Gib likes them & got sad at the idea of their being folded in the mail—then I sent what rest I had of your letters—exciting to think of a book of your letters—and its effect upon our exploding population—that’ll finish ’em Buk—that’s a goodttt kidtttt—You do reach moments of fierce clarity—inbetween your more earthy—cthonic—perceptions & observations.

  A terrible experience drove me to star gaze—and I discovered astrology is right on time babe & I got my shit-hookers tight on books about it & can now cast a rudimentary horoscope—my stars were precisely in the position to jolt me & I stood inbetween life and death—and I chose life and got reborn—I was a slob before—I am now a hard boiled egg. All this leads up to:

  I’d like to SEE your stars—you Star you—zo—let loose midttt der following: give me your: hour & minute of birth or thereabouts—your birth day & year & month—let me know immijit—and then I will tell you about YOU—Gib sez he’s gonna buy me a tall, tall hat with a big star on top—that’s how stars effect us!!!

  Please do NOT see this as ‘how much mist could a mist stick stick if a mist stick could stick mist’—Our charts are our report cards from our Universe-ity—Our cosmic bank accounts.

  and I still cant see the poems—oh THERE they are!! I wish I were making a new A & P—but right now I got my hands full—I reluctantly return them suh—I know you do not make copies—

  re: the 4th line of Red Bricks in My Eyes—“even Love, whatever that means”—the root meaning for Love is “I please”—Love pleases whenever it can truthfully—sometimes compassion moves Love—sometimes pity but that is not good—pity has envy as its opposite—whereas love has hate & Master Kung sez “only the complete person can love and hate” or words to that effect—and when we love ourselves—we please ourselves. It is the most high to Love god—but I got a sneaking suspicion—that when it is said “god is inside of YOU”—it means YOU must bring that God out—BE like that God inside…so in the long run—when we pleases our own wee selfies we iz pleasin der Godttt—

  that is good “people have died before me…like tapes slipping out of a machine”—That IS the way it IS—

  dear Buk—if you ever resorted to punctuation marks your poems will lose their sur-realism—but your edge would be harder. Your breathing is not like my breathing & I sometimes read you wrong. I.E.—“the slow horse of her body (breath s.m.l.) moves under a sheet of pink (breath s.m.l.) like carnations playing tricks with my better sense…” (breath s.m.l.) & thinks “what hell means that?? I see it reads: “the slow horse of her body moves (breath bukow) under a sheet of pink like carnations” breath bukow—see diff?? Punctuation would have caused your reader to get the proper point. Most of us are sloppy readers Buk & each one is on a different star.

  “The slow horse of her body moves under a sheet of pink, like carnations; playing…” etc. It is really good Buk—it gives a sense of slow movement as if the day were hot.

  The band is good also “plays as if it were an order for assassination”. my god you can spell!! I cannot. But I do remember to place commas now & then between phrases.

  Not with the Sunburnt Fury of a Whitman—you got the “small men” down pat. Poor lamb—incarnating as a poet in this protestant land of equality. Oh JeEzuz—the woe.


  Dear Buk—you are most responsible and to Life—One moment—let me see if there is a root meaning for that word—I never looked it up before as have been too busy living it—Life means “I leave” Riņáckti Ric (Skr.)…we should live so long just to find that out…Yes—it does mean that—our contribution to the universe—what we leave & it means that life leaves—comes & goes & it means that life must leave its electric state & become matter because “life” also has a meaning of “body”—

  To return to my meaning—you are being responsible to Life who is also God as well as Love. I think—Buk—that it will get worse & what you leave those like us in the future—will be the accurate record of this flaming hell of america.

  Your portrait of the bored refuge into sex of the common dog-males is terrifying—the dog-females & dog-males are horrifying. They live all around me & I have never known such could exist. It must be the heavy batter of cosmic rays out here.

  The dog next cabin gets an erection at the sight of a box of candy & has to take it out on her—their lives must go—man—they aint people!! Good cat’likes too—God is a box of white sugar candy!!

  He hates me because my experiences are larger than his & he cant own me—He gets the Hen to rush over shouting that So & So’s on th’ phone—I go & it’s her pal & he does a long bit on “an exhibit & I’d like to have your work” but I smell a rat & anyhow I don’t want my work shown with pals of the Barnyard Set so I say “NO” and then I see by their faces—that they all got together “ohhh letzz tell Sheri that Brentie’s gonna have a show & she’ll rush out & get all her work & then Brentie can lose it…”

  I am grateful for my good stars. The Holy Ghost whispers in the ear. It flip’d them out that I had not that kind of vanity. These are my fellow country men & women—these are the whites—the catholic whites—fallen lower than whale shit (N.H.P.’s good line)—and yet—my eyes are opening Buk—before I thought all people were beautiful inside. Now I KNOW better.