| sitting with the IBM by Charles Bukowski |
[11 May 2006|11:00am] |
...anyhow, mu 5 cats dislike the heat, they
sit outside under the cool juniper bushes
listening to me
type.
sometimes they bring me presents:
birds or mice.
the we have a little misunder-
standing.
and they back off
looking at me
and their eyes say: this guy's nuts,
he doesn't know that this is the way
it works...
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| no sale by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|02:21pm] |
I just sat in the bar
non compos mentis
it was about a week before
Xmas.
big Ed was selling trees
outside.
he came into the
bar.
"Jesus, it's freezing out
there!"
big Ed looked at me.
"Hank, you go stand out there
with the trees.
if anybody wants to buy
one, you come in and
get me."
I stood outside.
I was in my shirt sleeves.
I didn't have a coat.
it was snowing.
it was ice cold
but a nice ice
cold.
I wasn't used to snow
but I lided the snow.
I stood with the trees.
I stood there about 20
minutes
then big Ed came
out.
"nobody come by?"
"no, Ed."
"you go on in, tell Billy Boy
to give you a drink on
my tab."
I walked in
got a stool.
I told Billy Boy,
"double scotch and water,
Es's tab."
Billy Boy poured.
"you sell any trees?"
"no trees."
Billy Boy looked at
the patrons.
"hey, Hank didn't sell
no trees."
"whatsa matter, Hank?"
somebody asked.
I didn't answer.
I took a hit of my
drink.
"how come no trees were
sold? somebody els
asked.
"as the bee swarms to
honey, as night follows
day
in the stink of time,
it will
happen."
"what will happen?"
"somebody will sell a tree
though it won't necessarily
be me."
I finished my drink.
there was silence.
then somebody said,
"this guy is some kind of
nut."
being there
with those
I decided
I had no argument
with
that.
(The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
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| going out by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|02:19pm] |
the sweet slide of the luger
toward your temple,
a fligth of birds winging
northward,
the clicking sound of the
safety catch being
released,
the eclipse of the
sun,
the sound of something being
shut
hard,
pal.
(The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
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| poetry contest by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|02:12pm] |
send as many poems as you wish, only
keep each to a maximum of ten lines.
no limit as to style or content
although we prefer poems of
affirmation.
double space
with your name and address in the
upper left hand
corner.
editors not responsible for
manuscripts
without an s.a.s.e.
every effort
will be made to
judge all works within 90
days.
after careful screeing
the final choice will be made by
Elly May Moody,
general editor in charge.
please enclose ten dollars for
each poem
submitted.
a final grand prize of seventy-five dollars will
be awarded the winner
of the
Elly May Moody Golden Poetry
Award,
along with a scroll
signed by
Elly May Moody.
there will also be 2nd, 3rd and
4th prize scrolls
also signed by
Elly May Moody.
all decisions will be
final.
the prize winners will
appear in the Spring issue of
The Heart of Heaven
prize winners will also receive
one copy of the magazine
along with
Elly May Moody's
latest collection of
poetry,
The Place Where Winter
Died.
(The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
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| those mornings by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|02:05pm] |
I still remember those New Orleans rats
out on the balcony railings
in the dark of early morning
as I stood waiting my turn at the
crapper.
there were always two or three
big ones
just sitting there-sometimes they'd
move quickly then
stop and sit there.
I looked at them and they looked at
me.
they showed no fear.
at last the crapper door would open
and out would walk
one of the tenants
and he always looked worse than
the rats
and then he'd be gone
down the hallway
and I'd og into the still-
stinking crapper
with my hangover.
and almost always
when I came out
the rats would be gone.
as soon as it got a little ligth
they would
vanish.
and then
the world would be
mine,
I'd walks down the stairway
and into it
and my low-wage
pitiful
job
while remembering the
rats,
how it was better for them
than for
me.
I walked to work as the sun
came up hot
and the whores slept
like
babies.
(The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
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| death is smoking my cigars by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|12:55pm] |
you know: I'm drunk once again
here
listening to Tchaikovsky
on the radio.
Jesus, I heard him 47 years
ago
when I was a starving writer
and here he is
again
and now I am a minor success as
a writer
and death is walking
up and down
this room
smoking my cigars
taking hits of my
wine
as Tchaik is working away
at the Pathétique,
it's been some journey
and any luck I've had was
because I rolled the dice
right:
I starved for my art, I starved to
gain 5 god-damned minutes, 5 hours,
5 days -
I just wanted to get the word
down;
fame, money, didn't matter:
I wanted the word down
and they wanted me at a punch press,
a factory assembly line
they wanted me to be a stock boy in a
department store.
well, death says, as he walks by,
I'm going to get you anyhow
no matter what you've been:
writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher,
sky-diver, I'm going to get
you...
o.k. baby, I tell him.
we drink together now
as one a.m. slides to 2
a.m. and
only he knows the
moment, but I worked a con
on him: I got my
5 god-damned minutes
and much
more.
(The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
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| air and light and time and space by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|12:46pm] |
"-you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and time to
create."
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.
(The Last Night of the Earth Poems)
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| by Charles Bukowski |
[08 May 2006|12:31pm] |
Flowers, Fist and Bestial Wail (1960)
Longshot Pomes for Broke Players (1962)
Run wiht the Hunted (1962)
It Catches My Heart in Its Hands (1963)
Crucifix in a Deathland (1965)
Cold Dogs in the Courtyard (1965)
Confessions af a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beastes (1965)
All the Assholes in the World and Mine (1966)
At Terror Street and Agony Way (1968)
Poems Writeen Before Jumping out of an 8 Story Window (1968)
Notes of a Dirty Old Man (1969)
A Bukowski Sampler (1969)
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)
Fire Station (1970)
Post Office (1971)
Moskingbird Wish Me Luck (1972)
Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness (1972)
South of No Nort (1973)
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973 (1974)
Factotum (1975)
Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems 1974-1977 (1977)
Women (1978)
Play the Piano Drunk/Like a Percussion Instrument/Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (1979)
Shakespeare Never Did This (1979)
Dangling in the Tournefortia (1981)
Ham on Rye (1982)
Bring Me Your Love (1983)
Hot Water Music (1983)
There's No Business (1984)
War All the Time: Poems 1981-1984 (1984)
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)
The Movie: "Barfly" (1987)
The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems 1946-1966 (1988)
Hollywood (1989)
Septuagenerian Stew: Stories & Poems (1990)
In the Shadow of the Rose (1991)
The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992)
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[03 May 2006|03:29pm] |
today is the day biāč
es te tikai izmēģinu firefoxa spellingu
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[01 May 2006|08:05pm] |
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ja raksti vairākas reizes pēc kārtas, tad draudi apriebties redzēt savas lietotāja bildes
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[22 Mar 2006|10:39am] |
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Sākusies jauna diena, pastāstiet kaut ko, jo pēc izgulēšanās vairs nav noguruma.
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[20 Mar 2006|12:29pm] |
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lai tā būtu.
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[19 Mar 2006|10:00pm] |
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Jauks jums te tusiņš. Jauki tā noskatīties. Ņemiet arī mani pēdējā danča virpulī. Redziet man rūdīta tērauda traktoriņš ar atveramām durvīm un raudzēts kastaņu pudiņš. Iesim uz jumta un metīsim pa zvaigznēm. Lai visuriene aizspurdz pār kokiem un līdaku izšuj uz jostām.
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[19 Mar 2006|02:19pm] |
Es lietošu, jo tas palīdzēs orientēties. Iespējams, punktam tas nepiestāvētu, bet aicinu visus pārējos pieturēties (pats tikai tagad iedomājos, ka arī šeit taču vajadzētu to lietot).
Vēl viena doma pirms palaišanas. Vai tad jebkas, ko mēs te sakam, nav saruna?
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[19 Mar 2006|12:23pm] |
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bet nedrīkst arī būt neuzmanīgs, jo pastāv draudi pārāk daudz izrunāties un ierunāties apgabalā, kur izteikumi robežojas ar kaut ko dikti apšaubāmu. Tas ir, vajag nodrošināties, ka par tevi nevar paņirgāties, par tavām sajūtām.
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[18 Mar 2006|08:53pm] |
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Varbūt ieliec kādu bildi, acij priekam.
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[18 Mar 2006|08:14pm] |
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Jā, šodien varētu uzrīkot kādu būgī nakti. Ko tu saki B.?
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[18 Mar 2006|08:07pm] |
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Mēs nejūtamies labi, jo mēs konstatējām, ka mums trūkst cilvēciskas saskarsmes. Piemēram, ja jūs kāds uzaicina uz kafiju, bet jūs atsakat. Kā jūs varat attaisnot šādu rīcību. Vai visam ir jābūt izdomātam?
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[22 Dec 2005|11:51pm] |
Ar klusinātāju pienu
Valtera tipa pistole izdzēra
un atraugājās visu dienu.
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[22 Dec 2005|11:50pm] |
No zirnekļu tīkliem seģeni pār moča stūri
un dubļubleķu uzacis ko lūri
kurbuli azotē lasa avīzē
burtus nepazīstamos izšāva Parīzē.
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