a gentle, alcoholic night

I told Linda I was going to come up here and
write
but I’ve stared at this machine
15 minutes while
drinking wine and smoking.

but there is a very fine symphony on the
radio
and I don’t feel too badly about not
producing.
this could be a good time to answer those
letters from those people to tell me of their
agonies
but I did that several nights ago,
I got 5 or 6 of them with
one shit.

there is a writer I know, he’s a very
good one but all he writes about is
writing, he writes about writing
poems.
well, he will write, I have written ten
poems today.
or he will write, I haven’t written a
poem in 3 months.
or he will write that all his poems are
coming back
or he will write that all his poems have
been accepted.

this poem is something like his: talking
about it.
it’s relaxing, you can just go on and say things
like–
I went for a walk with a poem
today.
or–
I went to the track today with a poem
and we had some arguments over our selections
but anyhow we
both lost.
or–
I drank today but my poem(s) smoked
pot.

anyhow, Linda now hears the typer going
and probably thinks that I am
hammering out great stuff.
actually, I came up here to drink
great stuff.

right, poem?

Like this website? Support it.
I want to bring all of Bukowski's poems online and make then freely available. This means hundreds of hours of work to retype over 1,000 of his poems from the original manuscripts. Your donations will help support this work.