why oh why oh why and why not?

what we need here is less of more, I mean as I back my $30,000 car
out of the driveway of my paid for home, I wonder what happened
to the errand boy from hell, the punching bag, the beggar of
drinks, the failed suicide, the automatically rejected writer, the
ugly lover of ugly women, the certified failure, the pitied clown,
the king of jackoffs–
I back it out and am on the street, I punch the radio in, luck it
to Brahms, gun it around a slow driver and I am on the

it happened slow and it happened fast: from idiot to almost-
accepted idiot.

then I smile.
hell, I was only resting, giving myself time for the build-up, taking
notes, hosting
the horrors and the hells and the madwomen, it was not entirely
without guile
even those nights of
sweating on the bed, actually gripping the bedposts with my hands
for fear of walking into the kitchen where
in that battered drawer
huddled the

it had been a plan and it had not.

I take the fast land of the freeway, the powerful motor silent as
Brahms whirls about the interior, I am alone and astonished in the
multitudes, pay over $20,000 in quarterly taxes and still
write   some of the best poetry
of this time.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript