Yes?โ he asked, looking at me over the sheet. โIโm a writer temporarily down on my inspirations.โ โOh, a writer, eh?โ โYes.โ โAre you sure?โ โNo, Iโm not.โ โWhat do you write?โ โShort stories mostly. And Iโm halfway through a novel.โ โA novel, eh?โ โYes.โ โWhatโs the name of it?โ โโThe Leaky Faucet of My Doom.โโ โOh, I like that. Whatโs it about?โ โEverything.โ โEverything? You mean, for instance, itโs about cancer?โ โYes.โ โHow about my wife?โ โSheโs in there too.
Charles BukowskiI didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted.
Charles BukowskiWe are Born like this Into this Into these carefully mad wars Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness Into bars where people no longer speak to each other Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings Born into this Into hospitals which are so expensive that itโs cheaper to die Into lawyers who charge so much itโs cheaper to plead guilty Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Charles Bukowskiin the cupboard sits my bottle like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony, sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, the phone rings gamboling its sound against the odds of the crooked sea; I drink deeply and evenly now, I drink to paradise and death and the lie of love.
Charles Bukowski