




CHARLES BUKOWSKI




THE CAPTAIN
IS OUT TO LUNCH
AND THE SAILORS
HAVE TAKEN OVER
THE SHIP



















8/28/91										11:28 PM

	Good day at the track, damn near swept the card.
	Yet it gets boring out there, even when youre winning. 
Its the  minute wait between races, your life leaking out 
into space. The people look gray out there, walked through. 
And Im there with them. But where else could I go? An Art 
Museum? Imagine staying home all day and playing at writer? I 
could wear a little scarf. I remember this poet who used to 
come by on the bum. Buttons off his shirt, puke on his pants, 
hair in eyes, shoelaces undone, but he had this long scarf 
which he kept very clean. That signaled he was a poet. His 
writing? Well, forget it...
	Came in, swam in the pool, then went to the spa. My soul 
is in danger. Always has been.
	Was sitting on the couch with Linda, the good dark night 
descending, when there was a knock on the door. Linda got it.
	Better come here, Hank...
	I walked to the door, barefooted, in my robe. A young 
blond guy, a young fat girl and a medium sized girl.
	They want your autograph...
	I dont see people, I told them.
	We just want your autograph, said the blond guy, then 
we promise never to come back.
	Then he started giggling, and holding his head. The girls 
just stared.
	But none of you have a pen or even a piece of paper I 
said.
	Oh, said the blond kid, taking his hands from his head, 
Well come back again with a book! Myabe at a more proper 
time...
	Tha bathrobe. The bare feet. Maybe the kid thought i was 
eccentric. Maybe I was.
	Dont come in the morning, I told them.
	I saw them begin to walk off and I closed the door...
	Now Im up here writing about them. Youve got to be a 
little hard with them or theyll swarm you. Ive had some 
horrible expreriences blocking that door. So many of them 
think that somehow youll invite them in and drink with them 
all night. I prefer to drink alone. A writer owes nothing 
except to his writing. He owes nothing to the reader except 
the availability of the printed page. And worse, many of the 
doorknockers are not even readers. Theyve just heard 
something. The reader and the best human is the one who 
rewards me with his or her absence.






8/29/91										10:55 PM

Slow at the track today, my damned life dangling on the hook. 
I am there every day. I dont see anybody else out there every 
day except the employees. I probably have some malady. Saroyan 
lost his ass at the track, Fante at poker, Dostoevsky at the 
weel. And its really not a matter of the money unless you run 
out of it. I had a gambler friend once who said, I dont care 
if I win or lose, I just want to gamble. I have more respect 
for the money. Ive had very little of it most of my life. I 
know what a park bench is, and the landlords knock. There are 
only two things wrong with money: too much or too little.
	I suppose theres always something out there we want to 
torment ourselves with. And at the track you get the feel of 
the other people, the desperate darkness, and how easy they 
toss it in and quit. The racetrack crowd is the world brought 
down to size, life grinding against death and losing. Nobody 
wins finally, we are just seeking a reprieve, a moment out of 
the glare. (shit, the lighted end of my cigarette just hit one 
of my fingers as I was musing on this purposelessness. That 
woke me up, brought me out of this Sartre state!) Hell, we 
need humor, we need to laugh. I used to laugh more, I used to 
do everything more, except write. Now, I am writing and 
writing and writing, the older I get the more I write, dancing 
with death. Good show. And I think the stuff is all right. One 
day theyll say, Bukowski is dead, and then I will be truly 
discovered and hung from stinking bright lampposts. So what? 
Immortality is the stupid invention of the living. You see 
what the racetracks does? It makes the lines roll. Lightning 
and luck. The last bluebird singing. Anything I say sounds 
fine because I gamble when I write. Too many are too careful. 
They study, they teach and they fail. Convention strips them 
of their fire.
	I feel better now, up here on this second floor with the 
Macintosh. My pal.
	And Mahler is on the radio, he glides with such ease, 
taking big chances, one needs that sometimes. Then he sends in 
the long power rises. Thank you, Mahler, I borrow from you and 
can never pay you back.
	I smoke too much, I drink too much but I cant write too 
much, it just keeps coming and I call for more and it arrives 
and mixes with Mahler. Sometimes I deliberately stop myself. I 
say, wait a moment, go to sleep or look at your 9 cats or sit 
with your wife on the couch. Youre either at the track or 
with the Macintosh. And then I stop, put on the brakes, park 
the damned thing. Some people have written that my writing has 
helped them go on. It has helped me too. The writing, the 
roses, the 9 cats.
	Theres a small balcony here, the door is open and I can 
see the lights of the cars on the Harbor Freeway south, they 
never stop, that roll of lights, on and on. All those people. 
What are they doing? What are they thinking? Were all going 
to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us 
love each other but it doesnt. We are terrorized and 
flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
	Keep it going, Mahler! Youve made this a wonderous night. 
Dont stop, you son-of-a-bitch! Dont stop!


9/11/91										1:20 AM

	I should cut my toenails. My feet have been hurting me for 
a couple of weeks. I know its the toenails yet I cant find 
time to cut them. I am always fighting for the minute, I have 
time for nothing. Of course, if I could stay away from the 
racetrack I would have plenty of time. But my whole life has 
been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I 
want to do. There was always something getting in the way of 
my getting to myself.
	I should make a giant effort to cut my toenails tonight. 
Yes, I know there are people dying of cancer, there are people 
sleeping in the streets in cardboard boxes and I babble about 
cutting my toenails. Still, I am probably closer to reality 
than some slug who watches 162 baseball games a year. Ive 
been in my hell, Im still in my hell, dont feel superior. 
The fact that I am alive and 71 years old and babbling about 
my toenails, thats miracle enough for me.
	Ive been reading the philosophers. They are really 
strange, funny wild guys, gamblers. Descartes came along and 
saind, there fellows have been talking pure crap. He said that 
mathematics was model for absolute self-evident truth. 
Mechanism. Then Hume came along with his attack on the 
validity of scientific causal knowledge. And then came 
Kierkegaard: I stick my finger into existence  it smells of 
nothing. Where am I? And then along came Sartre who claimed 
that existence was absurd. I love there boys. They rock the 
world. Didnt they headaches thinking that way? Didnt a rush 
of blackness roar between their teeth? When you take men like 
these and stack them againts the men I see walking along the 
street or eating in cafes or appearing at tv screen the 
difference is so great that something wrenches inside of me, 
kicking me in the gut.
	I probably wont do the toenails tonight. Im not crazy 
but Im not sane either. No, maybe Im crazy. Anyway, today, 
when daylight comes and 2 p.m. arrives it ill be the first 
race of the last day of racing at Del Mar. I played every day, 
every race. I think Ill sleep now, my razor nails slashing at 
the good sheets. Good night.




9/12/91										11:19 PM

	No horses today. I feel strangely normal. I know why 
Hemingway needed the bullfights, it framed the picture for 
him, it reminded him of where it was and what it was. 
Sometimes we forget, paying gas bills, getting oil changes, 
etc. Most people are not ready for death, theirs or anybody 
elses. It shocks them, terrifies them. Its like a great 
surprise. Hell, it should never be. I carry death in my left 
pocket. Sometimes I take it out and talk to it: Hello, baby, 
how you doing? When you coming for me? Ill be ready.
	Theres nothing to mourn about death any more than  there 
is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is 
not death but the lives people live or dont live up until 
their death. They dont honor their own lives, they piss on 
their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They 
concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, 
fucking. Their mindes are full of cotton. They swallow God 
without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon 
they forget how to think, they let others think for them. 
Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they 
talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the 
centuries and they cant hear it. Most peoples deaths are a 
sham. Thares nothing left to die.
	You see, I need the horses, I lose my sense of humor. One 
thing death cant stand is for you to laugh at it. Trues 
laughter knocks the logest odds right on thir ass. I havent 
laughed for 3 or 4 weeks. Something is eating me alive. I 
scratch myself, twist, look about, trying to find it. The 
Hunter is clever. Your cant see him. Or her.
	This computer must go back into the shop. Wont bless you 
with the details. Some day I will know more about computers 
than the computers themselves. But right now this machine has 
me by the balls. 
	There are two editors I know who take great offense at 
computers. I have these two letters and they rail against the 
computer. I was very surprised about the bitterness in the 
letters. And the childishness. I am aware that the computer 
cant do the writing for me. If it could, I wouldnt want it. 
They both just went on too long. The inference being that the 
computer wasnt good for the soul. Well, few things are. But 
Im for convenience, if I can write twice as much and the 
quality remains the same, then I prefer the computer. Writing 
is when I fly, writing is when I start fires. Writing is when 
I take death out of my left pocket, throw him against the wall 
and catch him as he bounces back.
	These guys think you always have to be on the cross and 
bleeding in order to have soul. They want you half mad, 
dribbling down your shirt front. Ive  had enough of the 
cross, my tak is full of that. If I can stay off the cross, I 
still have plenty to run on. Too much. Let them get on the 
cross, Ill congratulate them. But pain doesnt create 
writing, a writer does.
	 Anyway, back into the shop with this and when these two 
editors see my work typewritten again theyll think, ah, 
Bukowski has his soul back. This stuff reads much better.
	Ah, well, what would we do without our editors. Or better 
yet, what would they do without us?


9/13/91										5:25 PM

	The track is closed. There is no inter-track wagering with 
Pomona, damned if Im going to make that damned hot drive. 
Ill probably end up with night racing at Los Alamitos. The 
computer is out of the shop once more but it no longer 
corrects my spelling. Ive hacked at this machine trying to 
dig it out. Will probably have to phone the shop will ask the 
fellow, What do I do now? And he will say something like, 
You have to transfer it from your main disk to your hard 
disk. Ill probably end up erasing everything. The typewriter 
sits behind me and says, Look, Im still here.
	There are night when this room is the only place want to 
be. Yet I get up here and Im an empty husk. I know I could 
raise hell and dance words on this screen if I got drunk but I 
have to pick up Lindas sister at the airport tomorrow 
afternoon. Shes coming for a visit. Shes changed her name 
from Robin to Jharra. As women get older, they change their 
names. Many do, I mean. Suppose a man did that? Can you see me 
phoning somebody:
	Hey, Mike, this is Tulip.
	Who?
	Tulip. Formerly Charles, but now Tulip. I will no longer 
answer to Charles.
	Fuck you, Tulip.
	Mike hangs up...
	Getting old is very odd. The main thing is that you have 
to keep telling yourself, Im old, Im old. You see yourself 
in the mirror as you descend the escalator but you dont look 
directly at the mirror, you give a little side glance, a wary 
smile. You dont look that bad, you look something like a 
drusty candle. Too bad, screw the gods, screw the game. You 
should have been dead 35 years ago. This is a little extra 
scenery, more peeks at the horror show. The older a writer is 
the better he should write, hes seen more, endured more, hes 
closer to death. The page, that white page, 8 and 1/2 by 11. 
The gamble remains. Then you always remember a thing or two 
one of the other boys have said. Jeffers: Be angry at the 
sun. All too wonderful. Or Sartre: Hell is other peopple. 
Right on and through the target. Im never alone. The best 
thing is to be alone but not quite alone.
	To my right, the radio works hard bringing me more great 
classical music. I listen to 3 or 4 hours of this a night as I 
am doing other things, or nothing. Its my drug, it washes the 
crap of the day right out of me. The classical composers can 
do this for me. The poets, the novelists, the short story 
writes cant. A gang of fakes. What is it? Writers are the 
most difficult to take, on the page or in person. And they are 
worse in person than on the page and thats pretty bad. Why do 
we say pretty bad? Why not ugly bad? Well, writers are 
pretty bad and ugly bad. And we love to bitch about one 
another. Look at me.
	About writing, I write basically the same way now as I did 
50 years ago, maybe a little better but not much. Why did I 
have to reach the age of 51 I could pay the rent with my 
writing? I mean, if Im right and my writing is no different, 
what took so long? Did I have to wait for the world to catch 
up with me? And now, if it has, where am I now? In bad shape, 
thats what. But I dont think Ive gotten the fat head from 
any luck that Ive had. Does a fathead ever realize that hes 
one? But Im far from contented. Something is in me that I 
cant control. I can never drive my car over a bridge without 
thinking of suicide. I can never look at a lake or an ocean 
without thinking of suicide. I mean, I wont linger on it all. 
But it will flash on me: SUICIDE. Like a light going on. In 
the darkness. That there is an out helps you stay in. Get it? 
Otherwise, it could only be madness. And thats no fun, buddy. 
And whenever I get off a good poem, thats another crutch to 
keep me going. I dont know about other people, but when I 
bend over to put on my shoes in the morning, I think, Christ-
oh-mighty, now what? Im screwed by life, we dont get along. 
I have to tak little bites out of it, not the whole thing. 
Its like swallowing buckets of shit. I am never surprised 
that the madhouses and jails are full and that the streets are 
full. I like to look at my cats, they chill me out. They make 
me feel all right. Dont put me in a roomful of humans, 
though. Dont ever do that. Especially on a holiday. Dont do 
it.
	I heard they found my first wife dead in India and nobody 
in her family wanted the body. poor girl. She had a crippled 
neck that couldnt turn. Other than that she was perfectly 
beautiful. She divorced me and she should have. I wasnt kind 
enough or big enough to save her.


9/21/91										9:27 PM

	Went to a movie premiere last night. Red carpet. Flash 
bulbs.  Party afterwards. Didnt hear much said. Too crowded. 
Too hot. First party I got cornered at the bar by a young guy 
with very round eyes who never blinked. I dont know what he 
was on. Or off. Quite a few people like that about. The young 
guy had 3 rather nice looking ladies with him and he kept 
telling me how they liked to suck cock. The ladies just smiled 
and said, Oh, yes! And the whole conversation went on like 
that. On and on like that. I kept trying to figure out whether 
it was true or whether I was being put on. But after a while I 
just got weary of it. But the young guy just kept pressing me, 
talking on about how the girls liked to suck cock. His face 
kept getting closer and he kept on and on. Finally, I reached 
out and grabbed him by his shirt front, hard, and held like 
that and I said, Listen, it wouldnt look good if a 71-year-
old guy beat the shit out of you in front of all these people, 
would it? Then I let go of him. He walked around the other 
end of bar, followed by his ladies. Damned if I could make any 
sense out of it.
	I guess Im too used to sitting in a small room and making 
words do a few things. I see enough of humanity at the 
racetracks, the supermarkets, gas stations, freeways, cafes, 
etc. This cant be helped. But I feel like kicking myself in 
the ass when I go to gatherings, even if the drinks are free. 
It never works for me. Ive got enough clay to play with. 
People empty me. I have to get away to refill. Im whats best 
for me, sitting here slouched, smoking a beedie and watching 
this creen flash the words. Seldom do you meet a rare or 
interesting person. Its more than galling, its a fucking 
constant shock. Its making a god-damned grouch out of me. 
Anybody can be a god-damned grouch and most are. Help!
	I just need a good nights sleep. But first, never a 
damned thing to read. After youve read a certain amount of 
decent literature, there just isnt any more. We have to write 
it ourselves. Theres no juice in the air. But I expect to 
wake up in the morning. And the morning I dont, fine. I wont 
need any more window screeens, razor blades, Racing Forms or 
message-taking machines. The phone rings mostly for my wife, 
anyhow. The Bells do not Toll for Me.
	Sleep, sleep. I sleep on my stomach. Old habit. Ive lived 
with too many crazy women. Got to protect the privates. Too 
bad that young guy didnt challenge me. I was in a mood to 
kick ass. Would have cheered me up immensely. Good night.


9/25/91										12:28 AM

Hot stupid night, the cats are miserable, caught in all that 
fur, they look at me and I cant do anything. Linda off to a 
couple of places. She needs things to do, people to talk to. 
Its all right with me but she tends to drink and must drive 
home. Im not good company, talking is not my idea of anything 
at all. I dont want to exchange ideas  or souls. Im just a 
block of stone unto myself. I want to stay within that block, 
unmolested. It was that way from the beginning. I resisted my 
parents, then I resisted school, then I resisted becoming a 
decent citizen. Its like whatever I was, was there from the 
beginning. I didnt want anybody tinkering with that. I still 
dont.
	I think that people who keep notebooks and jot down their 
thougts are jerk-offs. I am only doing this because somebody 
suggested I do it, so you see, Im not even an original jerk-
off. But this somehow makes it easier. I just let it roll. 
Like a hot turd down a hill.
	I dont know what to do about the racetrack. I think its 
burning out for me. I was standing around at Hollywood Park 
today, inter-track betting, 13 races from Fairplex Park. After 
the 7th race I am $72 ahead. So? Will it take some of those 
white hairs out of my eyebrows? Will it make and opera singer 
out of me? What do I want? I am beating a difficult game, I am 
beating an 18 take. I do that quite a bit. I do that quite a 
bit. So, it mustnt be too difficult. What do I want? I really 
dont care if there is God or not. It doesnt interest me. So, 
what the hell is it about 18 percent?
	I look over and see the same guy talking. He stands in the 
same spot every day talking to this person or that or to a 
couple of people. He holds the Form and talks about the 
horses. How dreary! What am I doing here?
	I leave. I walk down to parking, get in my car and drive 
off. Its only 4 p.m. How nice. I drive along. Others drive 
along. We are snails crawling on a leaf.
	Then I get into the driveway, park, get out. Theres a 
message from Linda taped to the phone. I check the mail. Gas 
bill. And a large envelope full of poems. All printed on 
separate pieces of paper. Women talking about their periods, 
about their tits and breasts and about getting fucked. Utterly 
dull. I dump it in the trash.
	The I take a dump. Feel better. Take off my clothes and 
step into the pool. Ice water. But great. I walk along toward 
the deep end of the pool, the water rising inch by inch, 
chilling me. Then I plunge below the water. Its restful. The 
world doesnt know where I am. I come up, swim to the far 
edge, find the ledge, sit there. It must be about the 9th or 
10th race. The horses are stil running. I plunge of my age 
hanging onto me like a leech. Still, its o.k. I should have 
been dead 40 years ago. I rise to the top, swim to the far 
edge, get out.
	That was a long time ago. Im up here now with the 
Macintosh IIsi. And this is about all there is for now. I 
think Ill sleep. Rest up for the track tomorrow.


9/26/91										12:16 AM

	Got the proofs the new book today. Poetry. Martin says it 
will run to about 350 pages. I think the poems hold up. 
Uphold. I am an old train steaming down the track.
	Took me a couple of hours to read. Ive had some practice 
at doing this thing. The lines roll free and say about what I 
want them to say. Now the main influence on myself is myself.
	As we live we all get caught and torn by various traps. 
Nobody escapes them. Some even live with them. The idea is to 
realize that a trap is a trap. If you are in one nad you dont 
realize it, then youre finished. I believe that I have 
recognized most of my traps and I have written about them. Of 
course, all of writing doesnt consist of writing about traps. 
There are other things. Yet, some might say that life is a 
trap. Writing can trap. Some writers tend to write what has 
pleased their readers in the past. Then they are finished. 
Most writers creative span is short. They hear the accolades 
and believe them. There is only one final judge of writing and 
that is the writer. When he is swayed by the critics, the 
editors, the publishers, the readers, then hes finished. And, 
of course, when hes swayed with his fame and his fortune, you 
can float him down the river with the turds.
	Each new line is  a beginning and has nothing to do with 
any lines which preceeded it. We all start new each time. And, 
of course, it isnt all that holy either. The world can live 
much easier without writing than without plumbing. And some 
places in the world have very little of either. Of course, Id 
rather live without plumbing but Im sick.
	Theres nothing to stop a man from writing unless that man 
stops himself. If a man truly desires to write, then he will. 
Rejection and ridicule will only strengthen him. And the 
longer he is held back the stronger he will become, like a 
mass of rising water against a dam. There is no losing in 
writing, it will make your toes laugh as you sleep, it will 
make you stride like a tiger, it will fire the eye and put you 
face to face with Death. You will die a fighter, you will be 
honored in hell. The luck of the word. Go with it, send it. Be 
the Clown in the Darkness. Its funny. Its funny. One more 
new line...


9/26/91										11:36 PM

	A tittle for the new book. Sat out at the track trying to 
think of one. Thats one place where one cant think. It sucks 
the brains and spirit out of you. A draining blow job, thats 
what that place is. And I havent been sleeping nights. 
Something is sapping the energy out of me.
	Saw the lonely one at the track today. How ya doin 
Charles? O.k., I told him, then drifted off. He wants 
camaraderie. He wants to talk about things. Horses. You dont 
talk about horses. Thats the LAST thing you talk about. A few 
races went by and then I caught him looking at me over an 
automatic betting machine. Poor guy. I went outside and sat 
down and a cop started talking to me. Well, they call them 
security men. Theyre moving the toteboard, he said. Yes, 
I said. They had dug the thing out of the ground and were 
moving it further west. Well, it put men to work. I liked to 
see men working. I hand an idea that the security man was 
talking to me to find out if I was crazy or not. He probably 
wasnt But I got the idea. I let ideas jump me like that. I 
scratched my belly and pretended that I was a good old guy. 
Theyre going to put the lakes back in, I said. Yeah, he 
said. This place used to be called the Track of the Lakes and 
Flowers. Is that so? he said. Yeah, I told him, they 
used to have a Goose Girl contest. Theyd choose a goose girl 
and she went out in a boat and rowed around among the geese. 
Real boring job. Yeah, said the cop. He just stood there. I 
stood up. Well, I said, Im going to get a coffee. Take it 
easy. Sure, he said, pick some winners. You too, man, I 
said. Then I walked away.
	A title. My mind was blank. It was getting chilly. Being 
on old fart, I thought it might be best to get my jacket. I 
took the escalator down from the 4th floor. Who invented the 
escalator? Moving steps. Now, talk about crazy. People going 
up and down escalators, elevators, driving cars, having garage 
door that open at the touch of a button. Then they go to 
health clubs to work the fat off. In 4,000 years we wont have 
any legs, well wiggle along on our assholes, or maybe well 
just roll along like tumbleweeds. Each species destroys 
itself. What killed the dinosaurs was that they ate everything 
around and the had to eat each other and that brought it down 
to one and the son-of-a-bitch just starved to death.
	I got down to my car, got my jacket, put it on, took the 
escalator back up. That made me feel more like a playboy, a 
hustler-leaving the place and then coming back. I felt as if I 
had consulted some special secret source.
	Well, I played out the card, had some luck. By the 13th 
race it was dark and beginning to rain. I bet ten minutes 
early and left. Traffic was cautious. Rain scares the hell out 
of L.A. drivers. I got on the freeway behind the mass of red 
taillights. I didnt turn on the radio. I wanted silence. A 
title ran through my brain: Bible for the Disenchanted. No, no 
good. I remebered some of the best titles. I mean, ot other 
writers. Bow Down to Wood and Stone. Great title, lousy 
writer. Notes from the Underground. Great title. Great writer. 
Also, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. Carson McCullers, a very 
underrated writer. Of all my dozens of titles the one I liked 
best was Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with 
Beasts. But I blew that one away on a little mimeo pamphled. 
Too bad.
	Then the freeway stopped and I just sat there. No title. 
My head was empty. I felt like sleeping for a week. I was glad 
I had put the trash cans out. I was tired. Now I didnt have 
to do it. Trash cans. One night I had slept, drunk, on top of 
trash cans. New York City. I was awakened by a big rat sitting 
on my belly. We both, at once, leaped about 3 feet into the 
air. I was trying to be a writer. Now I was supposed to be one 
and I couldnt think of a title. I was a fake. Traffic began 
to move and I followed it along. Nobody knew who anybody else 
was and it was great. Then a great flash of lightning crashed 
above the freeway and for the first time that day I felt 
pretty good.


9/30/91										11:36 PM

	So, after some days of blank-braining it, I awakened this 
morning and there was the title, it had come to me in my 
sleep: The Last Night of the Earth Poems. It fit the content, 
poems of finality, sickness and death. Mixed with others, of 
course. Even some humor. But the title works for this book and 
this time. Once you a title, it locks everything in, the poems 
find their order. And I like the title. If I saw a book with a 
title like that I would pick it up and try to read a few 
pages. Some titles exaggerate to attrat attention. They dont 
work because the lie doesnt work.
	Well, Im done with that. Now what? Back to the novel and 
more poems. Whatever happened to the short story? It has left 
me. Heres a reason but I dont know what it is. If I worked 
at it I could find the reason but working at it wouldnt help 
anything. I mean, that time could be used for the novel or the 
poem. Or to cut my toenails.
	You know, somebody ought to invent a decent toenail 
clipper. Im sure it can be done. The ones they give us to 
work with are really awkward and disheartening. I read where a 
guy on skid row tried to hold up a liquor store with a pair of 
toenail clippers. It didnt work there either. How did 
Dostoevsky cut his toenails? Van Gogh? Beethoven? Did they? I 
dont believe it. I used to let Linda do mine. She did an 
excellent job  only now and then she got a little piece of 
flesh. Me, Ive had enough pain. Of any kind.
	I know that Im going to die soon and it seems very 
strange to me. Im selfish, Id just like to keep my ass 
writting more words. It puts the glow in me, tosses me through 
golden air. But really, how much longer can I go on? Its not 
right to keep going on. Hell, death is the gasoline in the 
tank anyhow. We need it. I need it. You need it. We trash up 
the place if we stay too long.
	Strangest thing, I think, after people die is looking at 
their shoes. Thats the saddest thing. Its as if most of 
their personality remains in their shoes. The clothes, no. 
Its in who has just died. You put their hat, their gloves and 
their shoes on the bed and look at them and youll go crazy. 
Dont do it. Anyhow, now they know something that you dont. 
Maybe.
	Last day of racing today. I played inter-track wagering, 
at Hollywood Park, betting Fairplex Park. Bet all 13 races. 
Had a lucky day. Came out totally refreshed and strong. Wasnt 
even bored out there today. Felt jaunty, in touch. When youre 
up, its great. You notice things. Like driving back, you 
notice steering wheel on your car. The instrument panel. You 
feel like youre in a goddamned space ship. You weave in and 
out of traffic, neatly, not rudely  working distances and 
speeds. Stupid stuff. But not today. Youre up and you stay 
up. How odd. But you dont fight it. Because you know it wont 
last. Off day tomorrow. Oaktree Meet, Oct. 2. The meets go 
around and around, thousands of horses running. As sensible as 
the tides, a part of them.
	Even caught the cop car tailing me on the Harbor freeway 
south. In time. I slowed it to 60. Suddenly, he dropped way 
back. I held it at 60. Hed almost clocked me at 75. They hate 
Acuras. I stayed at 60. For 5 minutes. He roared past me doing 
a good 90. Bye, bye friend. I hate getting a ticket like 
anybody else. You have to keep using the rear view mirror. 
Its simple. But youre bound to get tagged finally. And when 
you do, be glad youre not drunk or packing drugs. If youre 
not. Anyhow, the titles in.
	And now Im up here with the Macintosh and there is a 
wonderous space before me. Terrible music on the radio but you 
cant expect a 100 percent day. If you get 51, youve won. 
Today was a 97.
	I see where Mailer has written a huge new novel about the 
CIA and etc. Norman is a professional writer. He asked my wife 
once, Hank doesnt like my writing, does he? Norman, few 
writers like other writers works. The only time they like 
them is when they are dead or if they have been for a long 
time. Writers only like to sniff their own turds. I am one of 
those. I dont even like to talk to writers, look at them or 
worse, listen to them. And the worst is to drink with them, 
they slobber all over themselves, really look piteous, look 
like they are serching for the wing of the mother.
	Id rather think about death than about writers. Far more 
pleasant.
	Im going to turn this radio off. The composers also 
sometimes screw it up. If I had to talk to somebody I think 
Id much prefer a computer repairman or a mortician. With or 
without drinking. Preferably with.


10/2/91										11:03 PM

	Death comes to those who wait and to those who dont. 
Burning day today, burning dumb day. Came out of the post 
office and my car wouldnt kick over. Well, I am a decent 
citizen. I belong to the Auto Club. So, I needed a telephone. 
Forty years ago telephones were everywhere. Telephones and 
clocks. You could always look somewhere and see what time it 
was. No more. No more free time. And public telephones are 
vanishing.
	I went by instinct. I went into the post office, took a 
stairway down and there in a dark corner, all alone and 
unannounced was a telephone. A sticky dirty dark telephone. 
There was not another within two miles. I knew how to work a 
telephone. Maybe. Information. The operators voice came 
through and I felt saved. It was a calm and boring voice and 
asked what city I wanted. I named the city and the Auto Club. 
(You have to know how to do all the little things and you have 
to do them over and over again or you are dead. Dead in the 
streets. Unattended, unwanted.) The lady gave me a number but 
it was a wrong number. For the business office. Then I got he 
garage. A macho voice, cool, weary yet combative. Wonderful I 
gave him the info. 30 minutes, he said.
	I went back to the car, opened a letter. It was a poem. 
Christ. It was about me. And him. We had met, it seemed, 
twice, about 15 years ago. He had also published me in his 
magazine. I was a great poet, he said, but I drank. And had 
lived a miserable down-and-out life. Now yong poets were 
drinking and living miserable and down-and-out because they 
thought that was the way to make it. Also, I had attacked 
other people in my poems, including him. And I had imagined 
that he had written unflattering poems about me. Not true. He 
was really a nice person, he said he had published many other 
poets in his magazine for 15 years. And I was not a nice 
person. I was a great writer but not a nice person. And he 
never would have ever paled around with me. Thats what he 
wrote: paled. And he kept spelling youre as your. He 
wasnt a good speller.
	It was hot in the car. It was 100 degrees, the hottest 
Oct. first since 1906.
	I wasnt going to respond to his letter. He would write 
again.
	Another letter from an agent, enclosing the work of a 
writer. I glanced. Bad stuff. Of course. If you have any 
suggestions on his writing or any publishing leads, we would 
much appreciate..
	Another letter from a lady thanking me for sending her 
husband a few lines and a drawing at ther suggestion, that it 
made him very happy. But now they were divorced and she was 
frelancing it and could she come by and interview me?
	Twice a week I get requests for interviews. Theres just 
not that much to talk about. There are plenty of things to 
write about but not to talk about.
	I remember once, in the old days, some German journalist 
was interviewing me. I had poured wine into him and had talked 
for 4 hours. After that, he had leaned forward drunkenly and 
said, I am no interviewer. I just wanted an excuse to see 
you..
	I tossed the mail to the side and sat waiting. Then I saw 
the tow truck. A young smiling fellow. Nice boy. Sure.
	HEY BABY! I yelled, OVER HERE!
	He backed it around and I got out and told him the 
problem.
	Tow me into the Acura garage, I told him.
	Your warranty still good on that car? he asked.
	He knew damn well it wasnt. It was 1991 and I was driving 
a 1989.
	Doesnt matter, I said, tow me to the Acura dealer.
	Take them a long time to fix it, maybe a week.
	Hell no, they are very fast.
	Listen, said the boy, we have our own garage. We can 
take it down there, maybe fix it today. If not, well write 
you up and give you a call at first opportunity.
	Right there I visualized my car at their garage for a 
week. To be told that I needed a new camshaft. Or my cylinder 
heads ground.
	Tow me to Acura, I said.
	Wait, said the boy, I gotta call my boss first.
	I waited. He came back.
	He said to jump start you.
	What?
	Jump start.
	All right, lets do it.
	I got in my car let it roll to the back of his truck. He 
got out the snakes and it started right up. I signed the 
papers and he drove off and I drove off...
	Then I decided to drop the car off at the corner garage.
We know you. You been coming here for years, said the 
manager.
	Good, I said, then smiled, so dont screw me.
	He just looked at me.
	Give us 45 minutes.
	All right.
	You need a ride?
	Sure.
	He pointed. Hell take you.
	Nice boy standing there. We walked to his car. I gave him 
the directions. We drove up the hill.
	You still making movies? he asked me.
	I was a celebrity, you see.
	No, I said, fuck Hollywood.
	He didnt understand that.
	Stop here, I said.
	Oh, thats a big house.
	I just work there, I said.
	It was true.
	I got out. Gave him 2 dollars. He prostested but took 
them.
	I walked up the driveway. The cats were sprawled about, 
pooped. In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours 
a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass. Humans 
are too miserable and angry and single-minded.
	I walked up and sat at the computer. Its my new consoler. 
My writing has doubled in power and output since I have gotten 
it. Its a magic thing. I sit in front of it like most people 
sit in front of their tv sets.
	Its only a glorified typewriter, my son-in-law told me 
once.
	But he isnt a writer. He doesnt know what it is when 
words bite into space, flash into light, when the thoughts 
that come into the head can be followed at once by words, 
which encourages more thoughts and more words to follow. With 
a typewriter its like walking through mud. With a computer, 
its ice skating. Its a blazing blast. Of course, if theres 
nothing inside you, it doesnt matter. And then theres the 
clean-up work, the corrections. Hell, I used to have to write 
everyhing twice. The first time to get it down and the second 
time to correct the errors and fuckups. This way, its one run 
for the fun, the glory and the escape.
	I wonder what the next step will be after the computer? 
Youll probably just press your fingers to your temples and 
out will come this mass of perfect wordage. Of course, youll 
have to fill up before you start but there will always be some 
lucky ones who can do that. Lets hope.
	The phone rang.
	Its the battery, he said, you needed a new battery.
	Suppose I cant pay?
	Then well hold your spare tire.
	Be down soon.
	And as soon as I started down the hill I heard my elderly 
neighbor. He was yelling at me. I climbed his steps. He was 
dressed in his pajama pants and and old gray sweatshirt. I 
walked up and shook his hand. 
	Who are you? he asked.
	Im your neighbor. Been there for ten years.
	Im 96, he said.
	I know it, Charley.
	God wont take me because Hes afraid Ill take his job.
	You could.
	Could take the Devils job too.
	You could.
	How old are you?
	71.
	71?
	Yes.
	Thats old too.
	Oh, I know it, Charley.
	We shook hands and I went back down his steps and then 
down the hill, passing the tired plants, the tired houses.
	I was on my way to the gas station.
	Just another day kicked in the ass.


10/3/91										11:56 PM

Today was the second day of inter-track wagering. Where the 
live horses ran at Oak Tree there were only 7,000 people. Many 
people dont want to make that long drive to Arcadia. For 
those living in the south part of town, it means taking hte 
Harbor Freeway, then the Pasadena Freeway and then after that 
more driving along surface streets to get the track. Its a 
long hot drive, coming and going. I always came in from that 
drive totaly exhausted.
	A small-time trainer phoned me. There was nobody out 
there. Its the end. I need a new trade. Think Ill get a word 
processor and become a writer. Ill write about you...
	His voice was on the message machine. I phoned him back 
and congratulated him for coming in 2nd on a 6-to-1 shot. But 
he was down.
	The small trainer is finished. This is the end, he said.
	Well, well see what they draw tomorrow. Friday. Probably 
a thousand more. Its only inter-track wagering, its the 
economy. Things are worse than the government or the press 
will admit. Those who are still alive in the economy are 
keeping quiet about it. Id have to guess that the biggest 
business going is the sale of drugs. Hell, take that away and 
almost all the young would be unemployed. Me, Im still making 
it as a writer but that could be shot through the head 
overnight. Well, I still have my old age pension: $943.00 a 
month. They gave me that when I turned 70. But that can die 
too. Imagine all the old wandering the streets without their 
pensions. Dont discount it. The national debt can pull us 
under like a giant octopus. People will be sleeping in the 
graveyards. At the same time, there is a crust of living rich 
on top of the rot. Isnt it astonishing? Some people have so 
damn much money they dont even know how much they have. And 
Im talking millions. And look at Hollywood, turning out 60 
million dollar movies, as idiotic as the poor fools who go to 
see them. The rich are still there, theyve always found a way 
to milk the system.
	I remember when the racetracks were jammed wtih people, 
shoulder to shoulder, ass to ass, sweating, screaming, pushing 
toward the full bars. It was a good time. Have a big day, 
youd both be drinking and laughing. We thought those days 
(and night) would never end. And why should they? Crap games 
in the parking lots. Fist fights. Bravcado and glory. 
Electricity. Hell, life was good, life was funny. All us guys 
were men, wed take no shit from anybody. And, frankly, it 
felt good. Booze and a roll in the hay. And plenty of bars, 
full bars. No tv sets. You talked and got into trouble. If you 
got picked up for being drunk in the streets they only locked 
you up overnight to dry out. You lost jobs and found other 
jobs. No use hanging around the same place. What a time. What 
a life. Crazy things always happening, followed by more crazy 
things.
	Now, it has simmered away. Seven thousand people at a 
major racetrack on a sunny afternnon. Nobody at the bar. Just 
the lonely barkeep holding a towel. Where are the people? 
There are more people than ever but where are they? Standing 
on a corner, sitting in a room. Bush might get reelected 
because he won an easy war. But he didnt do crap for the 
economy. You never even know if your bank will openin the 
morning. I dont mean to sing the blues. But you know, in the 
1930s at least everybody knew where they were. Now, its a 
game of mirrors. And nobody is quite sure what is holding it 
together. Or who they are really working for. If they are 
working.
	Damn, Ive got to get off this. Nobody else seems to be 
bitching about the state of affairs. Or, if the are, they are 
in a place where nobody can hear them.
	And I sit around writing poems, a novel, I cant help it, 
I cant do anything else.
	I was poor for 60 years. now I am neither rich nor poor.
	At the track they are going to start laying off people at 
the concession stands, the parking lots and in the business 
office and in maintenance. Purses for races will decline. 
Smaller fields. Less jocks. A lot less laughter. Capitalism 
has survived communism. Now, it eats away at itself. Moving 
toward 2,000 A.D. Ill be dead and out of here. Leaving my 
little stack of books. Seven thousand at the track. Seven 
thousand. I cant believe it. The Sierra Madres weep in the 
smog. When the horses no longer run the sky will fall down, 
flat, wide, ponderous, crushing everything. Glassware won the 
9th, paid $9.00. I had a ten on it.


10/9/91										12:07 PM

	Computer class was a kick for sore ballls. You pick it up 
inch by inch and try to get the totality. The problem is that 
the books say one way and some people say the other. The 
terminology slowly becomes understandable. The computer only 
does, it doesnt know. You can confuse it and it can turn on 
you. Its up to you to get along with it. Still, the computer 
can go crazy and do odd and strange things. It catches 
viruses, gets shorts, bombs out, etc. Somehow, tonight, I feel 
that the less said about the computer, the better.
	I wonder whatever happened to that crazy French reporter 
who interviewed me in Paris so long ago? The one who drank 
whiskey the way most men drink beer? And he got brighter and 
more interesting as the bottles emptied. Probably dead. I used 
to drink 15 hours a day but it was mostly beer and wine. I 
ought to be dead. I will be dead. Not bad, thinking about 
that. Ive had a weird and wooly existence, much of it awful, 
total drudgery. But I think it was the way I rammed myself 
through the shit that made the difference. Looking back now, I 
think I exhibited a certain amount of cool and class no matter 
what was happening. I remember how the FBI guys got pissed 
driving me along in that car. HEY, THIS GUYS PRETTY COOL! 
one of them yelled angrily. I hadnt asked what I had been 
picked up for or where we were going. It just didnt matter to 
me. Just another slice out of the senselessness of life. NOW 
WAIT, I told them. Im scared. That seemed to make them 
feel better. To me, they were like creatures from outer space. 
We couldnt relate to each other. But it was strange. I felt 
nothing. Well, it wasnt exactly strange to me, I mean it was 
strange in the ordinary sense. I just saw hands and feet and 
heads. They had their minds made up about something, it was up 
to them. I wasnt looking for justice and logic. I never have. 
Maybe thats why I never wrote any social protest stuff. To 
me, the whole structure would never make sense no matter what 
they did with it. you really cant make something good out of 
something that isnt there. Those guys wanted me to show fear, 
they were used to that. I was just disgusted.
	Now here I am going to a computer class. But its all for 
the better, to play with words, my only toy. Just musing there 
tonight. The classical music on the radio is not too good. I 
think Ill shut down and go sit with the wife and cats for a 
while. Never push, never force the word. Hell, theres no 
contest and certainly very little competition. Very little.


10/14/91										12:47 PM

	Of course, there are some strange types at the racetrack. 
Theres one fellow whos out there almost every day. He never 
seems to win a race. After each race he screams in dismay 
about the horse that won. ITS A PIECE OF SHIT! he will 
scream. And then go on shouting about how the horse never 
should have won. A good 5 minutes worth. Often the horse will 
read 5 to 2 and 3 to 1, 7 to 2. Now a horse like that must 
show something or the odds would be much higher. But to this 
gentleman it just doesnt make sense. And dont let him lose a 
photo finish. He really comes on with it then. FUCK THE GOD 
IN THE FACE! HE CANT DO THIS TO ME! I have no idea why he 
isnt barred from the track.
	I asked another fellow once, Listen, how does this guy 
make it? Id seen him talking to him at times.
	He borrows money, he told me.
	But doesnt he run out of lenders?
	He finds new ones. You know his favorite expression?
	No.
	When does the bank open in the morning?
	I guess he just wants to be at the racetrack, somehow, 
just to be there. It means something to him even if he 
continues to lose. Its a place to be. A mad dream. But its 
boring there. A groggy place. Everybody thinking that they 
alone know the angle. Dumb lost egos. Im one of those. Only 
its a hobby for me. I think. I hope. But there is something 
there, if only in a short time frame, very short, a flash, 
like when my horse is in the run and then it does it. I see it 
happening. There is a high, a lift. Life becomes almost 
sensible when the horses do your bidding. But the spaces in 
between are very flat. People standing about. Most of them 
losers. They begin to look dry as dust. They are sucked dry. 
Yet, you know, when I force myself to stay home I begin to 
feel very listless, sick, useless. Its strange. The nights 
are always all right, I type at night. But the days have to 
gotten rid of. Im sick too in a way. I am not facing reality. 
But who the hell wants to?
	It reminds me of when I stayed in this Philadelhia bar 
from 5 a.m. until 2 a.m. It seemed the only place I could be. 
Often I didnt even remember going to my room and coming back. 
I seemed always on that bar stool. I was evading the 
realities, I didnt like them.
	Maybe for this fellow the racetrack was like the bar was 
for me?
	All right, you tell me something useful. Be a lawyer? A 
doctor? A congressman? Thats crap too. They think it isnt 
crap but it is. They are locked into a system and they cant 
get out. And almost everybody is not very good at what hey do. 
It doesnt matter, they are in the safe cocoon.
	It got kind of funny out there one day. Im speaking of 
the racetrack again.
	The Crazy Screamer was there as usual. But there was 
another fellow, you could see that there was something wrong 
with his eyes. They looked angry. He was standing near the 
Screamer and listening. Then he listened to the Screamers 
predictions for the next race. The Screamer was good that way. 
And evidently Angry Eyes was betting the Screamers tips.
	The day wore on. I was coming out of the mens room and 
then I saw and heard it. Angry Eyes was yelling at the 
Screamer, God-damn you, shut up! Im going to kill you! The 
Screamer turned his back and walked off saying, Please... 
Please... in a very weary and disgusted manner. Angry Eyes 
followed him: YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! IM GOING TO KILL YOU!
	Security arrived and intercepted Angry Eyes and led him 
off. Evidently death at the racetrack was not to be condoned.
	Poor Screamer. He was quiet the remainder of the day. But 
he stayed the full card. Gambling, of course can eat you 
alive.
	I had a girlfriend once who said, Youre really in bad 
shape, you go to both Alcoholics Anonymous and Gamblers 
Anonymous at the same time. But she really didnt mind either 
of those things unless they interfered with bed exercises. 
Then she hated them.
	I remember a friend of mine who was a total gambler. He 
told me once, I dont care if I win or lose, I just want to 
gamble.
	Im not that way, Ive been on Starvation Row too many 
times. Not having any money at all has the slightest tinge of 
Romanticism when you are very young.
	Anyway, the Screamer was out there again the next day. 
Same thing: he railed against the results of each race. Think 
of this. Its a very hard thing to do. I mean, even if you 
know nothing, you can just take a number, any number, say 3. 
You can bet 3 for 2 or 3 days and you are bound to finally get 
a winner. But not this fellow. He is a marvel. He knows all 
about horses, fractional times, track  variants, pace, class, 
etc. but he still manages only to pick losers. Think of it. 
Then forget it or it will drive you crazy.
	I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, 
when I was 35. Ive been at them for 36 years and I figure 
they still owe me $5,000. Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more 
ears I die even.
	Now thats a goal worth shooting for, dont you think?
	Huh?


10/15/91										12:55 AM

	Burned out. A couple night of drinking this week. Got to 
admit I dont recover as fast as I used to. Best thing about 
being tired is that you dont come out (in the writing) with 
any wild and dizzy proclamations. Not that that is bad unless 
it becomes habitual. The first thing writing should do is save 
your own ass. If it does this, then it will be automatically 
juicy, entertaining.
	Writer I know is phoning people telling them that he types 
5 hours a night. I imagine that we are supposed to marvel at 
this. Of course, do I have to tell you? What matters is what 
he is typing. I wonder if he counts his telephone time as part 
of this 5 hours of typing?
	I can type from one to 4 hours but the 4th hour, somehow, 
tapers away into almost nothing. Knew a guy once who told me, 
We fucked all night. Its not the same fellow who types 5 
hours a night. But theyve meet each other. Maybe they ought 
to take turns, switch off. The guy who typed 5 hours get to 
fuck all night and the guy who fucked all night gets to type 5 
hours. Or maybe they can fuck each other while somebody else 
types. Not me, please. Have the woman do it. If there is 
one...
	Hmmm.. you know, I am feeling somewhat goofy tonight. I 
keep thinking of Maxim Gorky. Why? I dont know. Somehow it 
seems as if Gorky never really existed. Some writers you can 
believe were there. Like Turgenev or D.H. Lawrence. Hemingway 
appears to me to half-and-half. He was really there but he 
wasnt. But Gorky? He did write some strong thigs. Before the 
Revolution. Then after the Revolution his writing began to 
pale. He didnt have much to bitch about. Its like the anti-
war protesters, they need a war in order to thrive. There are 
some who make good living protesting against war. And when 
there isnt a was they dont know what to do. Like during the 
Gulf War there was group of writers, poets, they had planned a 
huge anti-war protest, they were ready with thei poems and 
speeches. Suddenly the war was over. And the protest was 
scheduled for a week later. But they didnt call it off. They 
went ahead with it anyway. Because they wanted to be on stage. 
They needed it. It was something like an Indian doing a Rain 
Dance. I myself am anti-war. I was anti-war long ago when it 
wasnt even a popular, decent and intellectual thing. But I am 
suspect of the courage and motivations of many of the 
professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? 
Let the mind roll, who cares?
	Another good day at the track. Dont worry, Im not 
winning all the money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when 
it really looks good to me, Ill go $40.
	The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 
fellows on tv before each race and they talk about who they 
think will win. They show a net loss on each meet. As do all 
the public handicapppers, tout sheets and race betting 
services. Even computers cant figure the nags matter how much 
info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you 
what to do you are going to be a loser. And this includes your 
psychiatrist, your psychologist, your broker, your workshop 
teacher and your etc.
	There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping 
after failure and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with 
fear. They fear failure so much that they fail. They are too 
conditioned, too used to being told what to do. It begins with 
the family, runs through school and goes into the business 
world.
	You see here, I have a couple of good days at the track 
and suddenly I know everything.
	There is a door open into the night and I am sitting here 
freezing but I wont get up and close the door because these 
words are running away with me and I like that too much to 
stop. But damn it, I will. Ill get up and close the door and 
take a piss.
	There, I did it. Both of those things. I even put on a 
sweater. Old writer pust on sweater, sits down, leers into 
computer screen and writes about life. How holy can we get? 
And Christ, did you ever wonder how much piss a man pisses in 
a lifetime? How much he eats, shits? Tons. Horrible. Its best 
we die and get out of here, we are poisoning everything with 
what we expel. Damn the dancing girls, they do it too.
	No horses tomorrow. Tuesday is an off day.
	I think Ill go downstairs and sit with my wife, look at 
some dumb tv. Im either at the track or at this machine. 
Maybe shes glad of it. Hope so. Well, here I go. Im a good 
guy, you know? Down the stairs. It must be strange living with 
me. Its strange to me.
	Good night.


10/20/91										12:18 AM

This is one of those nights where there is nothing. Imagine 
being always like this. Scooped-out. Listless. No light. No 
dance. Not even any disgust.
	This way, one doesnt even have the good sense to commit 
suicide. The thought doesnt occur.
	Get up. Scratch yourself. Drink some water.
	I feel like a mongrel dog in July, only its October.
	Still, Ive had a good year. Masses of pages sit it the 
bookcase behind me. Written since Jan. 18. Its like a madman 
was turned loose. No sane man would write that many pages. 
Its a sickness.
	This year has also been good because Ive held back on 
visitors, more than ever before. I was tricked once though. 
Some man wrote me from London, said he had taught in Soweto. 
And when he had read his students some Bukowski many of them 
had shown a real interest. Black African kids. I liked that. I 
always like happening from a distance. Later on this man wrote 
me that he worked for the Guardian and that hed like to come 
by and interview me. He asked for my phone number, via mail, 
and I gave it to him. He phoned me. Sounded all right. We set 
a date and time and he was on his way. The night and time 
arrived and there he was. Linda and I set him up with wine and 
he began. The interview seemed all right, only a little off-
hand, odd. He would ask a question, I would answer it and he 
would begin talking about some experience he had had, relating 
more or less to the question and the answer I had given. The 
wine kept pouring and the interview was over. We drank on and 
he talked about Africa, etc. His accent began changing, 
alterning, getting, I think, grosser. And he seemed to be 
getting more and more stupid. He was metamorphosing right in 
front of us. He got onto sex and stayed there. He liked black 
girls. I said that we didnt know many, but that Linda had a 
friend who was a Mexican girl. That did it. He had to meet 
this Mexican girl. It was a must. We said, well, we didnt 
know. He kept on and on. We were drinking good wine but his 
mind acted as if it had been blasted by whiskey. Soon it just 
got down to Mexican... Mexican... where is this Mexican 
girl? he had dissolved completely. He was just a sloppy 
senseless barroom drunk. I told that the night was over. I had 
to make the track the next day. We moved him toward the door. 
Mexican, Mexican..., he said.
	You will send us a copy of the interview, yes? I asked.
	Of course, of course, he said. Mexican...
	We closed the door and he was gone.
	Then we had to drink to rid him from our minds.
	That was months ago. No article ever arrived. He had 
nothing to do with the Guardian. I dont know if he really 
phoned from London. He was probably phoning from Long Beach. 
People use the ruse of interview to get in the door. And since 
there is usually no payment for an interview, anybody can up 
and knock on the door with a tape recorder and a list of 
questions. A fellow with a German accent came by one night 
with his recorder. He made claim to belonging to some German 
publication that had circulation of millions. He stayed for 
hours. His questions seemed dumb but I opened up, tried to 
make it lively and good. He must have gotten 3 hours worth of 
tape. We drank and drank and drank. Soon his head was falling 
forward. We drank him under the table and were ready to go 
further. Really have a ball. His head bent forward on his 
chest. Little driblets ran out of the corners of his mouth. I 
shook him. Hey! Hey! Wake up! He came around and looked at 
me. I have got to tell you something, he said, I am no 
interviewer, I just wanted to come and see you.
	There have been times when I was a sucker for 
photographers too. They claim connections, send samples of 
their work. They come by with their screens and their 
backgrounds and their flashes and their assistants. You never 
hear from them again either. I mean, they never send back any 
photographs. Not any. They are the greatest liars. Ill send 
you a complete set. On man said, I am going to send you one 
that will be full size. What do you mean? I asked. Im 
going to send you a 6 by 4 foot photo. That was a couple of 
years ago.
	Ive always said, a writers job is to write. If I get 
burned by these fakes and sons-of-bitches, its my fault. Im 
done with them all. Let them toady up to Elizabeth Taylor.


10/22/91										4:46 PM
	
	The dangerous life. Had to get up at 8 a.m. to feed the 
cats because the Westec Security man was coming by at 8:30 
a.m. to begin the installation of a more sophisticated warning 
system. (Am I the one who used to sleep on top of garbage 
cans?)
	Westec Security arrived at exactly 8:30 a.m. A good sign. 
I took him around the house pointing out windows, doors, etc. 
Good, good. We would wire them, we would install glass-
breaking detectors, low beams, cross beams, fire sprinklers, 
etc. Linda came down and asked some questions. She is better 
at that than I.
	I had one thought: How long will this take?
	Three days, he said.
	Jesus Christ, I said. (Two of those days the racetrack 
would be closed.)
	So we fumbled around and left him in there, told him wed 
be back soon. We had a $100 gift certificate at I. Magnins 
somebody had given us for our wedding anniversary. Also, I had 
a royalty check to deposit. So, off to the bank. I signed the 
check.
	I really like your signature, the girl said.
	Another girl walked over and looked at the signature.
	His signature keeps changing, said Linda.
	I have to keep signing my name in books, I said.
	Hes a writer, Linda said.
	Really? What do you write? one of the girls asked.
	Tell her, I said to Linda.
	He writes poems, short stories and novels, she said.
	And a screenplay, I said. Barfly.
	Oh, smiled one of the girls, I saw it.
	Did you like it?
	Yes, she smiled.
	Thank you, I said.
	Then we turned and walked off.
	I heard one of the girls say as we walked in, I know who 
that is, said Linda.
	See? We were famous. We got into the car and drove over to 
the shopping center to get something to eat near I. Magnins.
	We got a table, had turkey sandwiches, apple juice and 
cappuccinos. From the table we could see a goodly portion of 
the mall. The place was virtually empty. Business was bad. 
Well, we had a hundred dollar coupon to blow. Wed help the 
economy.
	I was the only man there. Just women sat at the tables, 
alone, or in twos. The men were elsewhere. I didnt mind. I 
felt safe with the ladies. I was resting. My wounds were 
healing. I could stand a little shade. Damned if I could leap 
off of cliffs forever. Maybe after a respite I could dive over 
the edge again. Maybe.
	We finished eating and went over to I. Magnins.
	I needed shirts. I looked at thirts. Couldnt find a 
damned one. They looked like they had been designed by half-
wit. I passed. Linda needed a purse. She found one, marked 
down 50%. It was $395. It just didnt look like $395. More 
like $49.50. She passed. There were 2 chairs with elephant 
heads on the backs. Nice. But they were thousands. There was a 
glass bird, nice, $75 but Linda said we had no plae to put it. 
Same with the fish with blue stripes. I was getting tired. 
Looking at things made me tired. Department stores wore me 
down and stamped on me. There was nothing in them. Tons and 
tons of crap. If it were free, I wouldnt take it. Dont they 
ever sell anything likeable?
	We decided maybe another day. We went to a bookstore. I 
needed a book on my computer. I needed to know more. Found a 
book. Went to the clerk. He tabbed it up. I paid with a card. 
Thank you, he said, would you be good enough to sign this? 
He handed me my lastest book. There, I was famous. Noticed 
twice in the same day. Twice was enough. Three times or more 
and you were in trouble. The gods were making it just right 
for me. I asked his name, wrote it in, scribbled something, my 
name and a drawing.
	We stopped at the computer store on the way in. I needed 
paper for the laser printer. They didnt have any. I showed my 
fist to the clerk. Made me think of the old days. He 
recommended a place. We found it on the way in. We found 
everything there, cut-rate. I got enough laser pape to last 
two years and likewise mailing envelopes, pens, paper clips. 
Now, all I had to do was write.
	We drove on in. The security man had left. The tile man 
had come and gone. He left a note, I will be back by 4 p.m. 
We knew the tile man wouldnt be bak at 4 p.m. He was crazy. 
Bad childhood. Very confused. But good with tiles.
	I packed the stuff upstairs. I was ready. I was famous. I 
was a writer.
	I sat down and opened the computer. I opened it to STUPID 
GAMES. Then I started playing Tao. I was getting better and 
better at it. I seldom lost to the computer. It was easier 
than beating the horses but somehow not as fulfilling. Well, 
Id be back Wednesday. Playing the horses tightened up my 
screws. It was part of the scheme. It worked. And I had 5,000 
sheets of laser paper to fill.


10/31/91										12:27 AM

	Terrible day at the racetrack, not so much in money lost, 
I may even have won a bob, but the feeling out there was 
horrible. Nothing was stirring. It was as if I was doing time 
and you know, I dont have much time left. The same faces, the 
same 18 percent take. Sometimes I feel as if we are all 
trapped in a movie. We know our lines, where to walk, how to 
act, only there is no camera. Yet, we cant break out of the 
movie. And its a bad one. I know each of the mutuel clerks 
all too well. We sometimes have small conversation as I bet. 
Its my wish to find a noncommital clerk, one who will simply 
puch out my tickets and say nothing. But, they all get social, 
finally. They are bored. And they are on guard too: many of 
the horseplayers are somewhat deranged. There are often 
confrontations with the clerks, loud buzzers sound and 
security comes running. By talking to us, the clerks can feel 
us out. They feel safer that way. They prefer the friendly 
bettor.
	The horseplayers are easier for me. The regulars know that 
I am some kind of nut and dont wish to speak to them. I am 
always working on a new system, often changing the systems in 
midstream. I am always trying to fit numbers around actuality, 
trying to code the madness into a simple number or a group of 
numbers. I want to understand life, happenings in life, I read 
an article wherein it was stated that for some long period of 
time now, in chess, a king, a bishop and a rook were believed 
to be equal to a king and two knight. A Los Alamos machine 
with 65,536 processors was put to work on the program. The 
computer solved the problem in 5 hours after considering 100 
billion moves by working backwards from the winning position. 
It was found that the king, the rook and the bishop could 
defeat the king and two knights in 224 moves. This is utterly 
fascinating to me. It certainly beats the ponderous, 
tiddlywinks game of betting the horses.
	I believe that I worked too long in my life as a common 
laborer. I worked as such until I was 50 years old. Those 
bastards got me used to going somewhere every day and staying 
somewhere for many hours and then returning. I feel guilty 
just lolling about. So, I find myself at the track, bored and, 
at the same time, going crazy. I reserve the nights for the 
computer or for drinking or for both. Some of my readers think 
I love horses, that the action excites me, that I am a gung-ho 
gambler, a real macho big time boy. I get books in the mail 
about horses and horse racing and stories about the track and 
etc. I dont give a damn about that stuff. I go to the track 
almost reluctantly. I am too idiotic to figure out any other 
place to go. Where, where during the day? The Hanging Gardens? 
A motion picture? Hell, help me, I cant sit around with the 
ladies and most men my age are dead and if they arent dead 
they should be because they surely seem to be.
	Ive tried staying away from the track but thein I get 
very nervous and depressed and that night there are absolutely 
no juices to lend the computer. I guess getting my ass out of 
here forces me to look at Humanity and when you look at 
Humanity youve GOT to react. Its all too much, a continuous 
horror show. Yeah, Im bored out there, Im terrorized out 
there but Im also, so far, some kind of student. A student of 
hell.
	Who knows? Some day soon I might be bedridden. Ill lay 
there and paint on sheets of paper tacked to the wall. Ill 
paint them with a long brush and probably even like it.
	But right now, its the faces of the horseplayers, 
cardboard faces, horrible, evil, blank, greedy, dying faces, 
day papers, watching the changes on the toteboard as they are 
being ground away to lett and less, as I stand there with 
them, as I am one with them. We are sick, the suckerfish of 
hope. Our poor clothing, our old cars. We move toward the 
mirage, our lives wasted like everyboy elses.

11/3/91										12:48 AM

	Stayed home from the track today, have had a sore throat 
and a pain at the top of my head, a tittle toward the right 
side of it. When you get to be 71 you can never tell when your 
head is going to explode through the windshield. I still go 
after a good drunk now and then and smoke far too many 
cigarettes. The body get pissed off at me for doing this, but 
the mind must be fed too. And the spirit. Drinking feeds my 
mind and my spirit. Anyhow, I stayed in from the track, slept 
until 12:20 p.m.
	Easy day. Got in the spa like a big timer. The sun was out 
and the water bubbled and whirled, hot. I soothed out. Why 
not? Get an edge. Try to feel better. The whole world is a 
sack of shit ripping open. I cant save it. But Ive gotten 
many letters from people who claim that my writing has saved 
their asses. But I didnt write it for that, I wrote it to 
save my own ass. I was always outside, never fit. I found that 
out in the schoolyards. And another thing I learned was that I 
learned very slowly. The other guys knew everything, I didnt 
know a fucking thing. Everything was bathed in a white and 
dizzying light. I was a fool. And yet, even when I was a fool 
I knew that I wasnt a complete fool. I had some little corner 
of me that I was protecting , there was something there. No 
matter. Here I was in a spa and my life was closing down. I 
didnt mind, I had seen the circus. Still, there are always 
more things to write until they throw me into the darkness or 
into whatever it is. Thats the good thing about the word, it 
just keeps trotting on, looking for things, forming sentences, 
having a ball. I was full of words and they still came out in 
a good form. I was lucky. In the spa. Bad throat, pain in 
head, I was luck. Old writer in spa, musing. Nice, nice. But 
hell is always there, waiting to unfurl.
	My old yellow cat came up and looked at me in the water. 
We looked at each other. We each knew everything and nothing. 
Then he walked off.
	The day went on. Linda and I had lunch somewhere, dont 
remember where. Food not so good, packed with Saturday people. 
They were alive but they werent alive. Sitting at the tables 
and booths, eating and talking. Wait, Jesus, that reminds me. 
Had lunch the other day before going to the track. Sat at the 
counter, it was completely empty. I had gotten my order and 
was eating. Man walked in and took the seat RIGHT NEXT TO 
MINE. Threre were 20 or 25 other seats. He took the one next 
to me. Im just not that fond of people. The further I am from 
them the better I feel. And he put in his order and started 
talking into the waitress. About professional football. I 
watch it sometimes myself, but to talk about it in a cafe? 
They went on and on, dribbles about this and that. On and on. 
Favorite player. Who should win, etc. Then somebody at a booth 
joined in. I suppose I wouldnt have minded it all so much if 
I hadnt been rubbing elbows with that bastard next to me. A 
good sort, sure. He liked football. Safe. American. Sitting 
next to me. Forget it.
	So yes, we had lunch, Linda and I, got back and it went 
restfully toward the night, then just after dark Linda noticed 
something. She was good at that sort of thing. I saw her 
coming back through the yard and she said, Old Charley fell, 
the fire department is there.
	Old Charley is the 96-year-old guy who lives in the big 
house next door to us. His wife died last week. They were 
married 46 years.
	I walked out front and there was the fire truck. There was 
a fellow standing there. Im Charleys neighbor. Is the 
alive?
	Yes, he said.
	It was evident that they were waiting for the ambulance. 
The fire truck had gotten there first. Linda and I waited. The 
ambulance came. It was odd. Two little guys got out, they 
seemed quite small. They stood side by side. Three fire engine 
guys surrounded them. One of them started talking to the 
little guys. They stood there and nodded. Then that was over. 
They walked around and got the stretcher. They carried it up 
the long stairway to the house.
	They were in there a very long time. Then out they came. 
Old Charley was strapped onto the stretcher. As they got ready 
to load him into the amulance we stepped forward. Hold on, 
Charley, I said. Well be waiting for you to come back, 
Linda said.
	Who are you? Charley asked.
	Were your neighbors, Linda answered. 
	Then he was loaded in and gone. A red car followed with 2 
relatives in it.
	My neighbor walked over from across the street. We shook 
hands. Wed been a couple of drunks together. We told him 
about Charley. And we were all miffed that the relatives left 
alone so much. But there wasnt much we could do.
	You oughta see my waterfall, said my neighbor.
	All right, I said, lets see it.
	We walked over there, through his wife, past his kind and 
out the back door and into the backyard past his pool and sure 
enough there in the back was a HUGE waterfall. It went all the 
way up a cliff in the back and some of the water seemed to be 
coming out of a tree trunk. It was massive. And built of huge 
and beautiful stones of different color. The water roared down 
flooded by lights. It was had to believe. There was a worker 
back there still working on the waterfall. There was more to 
be done on it.
	I shook hands with the worker.
	Hes read all your books, my neighbor said.
	No shit, I said.
	The worker smiled at me.
	The we walked back into the house. My neighbor asked me, 
How about a glass of wine?
	I told him, No, thanks. Then explained the sore throat 
and the pain at the top of my head.
	Linda and I walked back across the street and back to our 
place.
	And, basically, that was about the day and the night.


11/22/91										12:26 AM

	Well, my 71st year has been a hell of a productive year. I 
have probably written more words this year than in any year of 
my life. And though a writer is a poor judge of his own work, 
I still tend to believe that the writing is about as good as 
ever  I mean, as good as I have done in my peak times. This 
computer that I started using on Jan. 18 has had much to do 
with it. Its simply easier to get the word down, it transfers 
more quickly from the brain (or wherever this comes from) to 
the fingers and from the fingers to the screen where it is 
immediately visible  crisp and clear. Its not a matter of 
speed per se, its a matter of flow, a river of words and if 
the words are good then let them run with ease. No more 
carbons, no more retyping. I used to neeed one night to do the 
work and then the next night to correct the errors and 
sloppines of the night before. Misspellings, screw-ups in 
tenses, etc. can now all be corrected on the orginal copy 
without a complete retype or write-ins or cross-outs. Nobody 
likes to read haphazard copy, not even the writer. I know all 
this must sound prissy and over-careful but it isnt, all it 
does is allow whatever force or luck you might have engendered 
to come out clearly. Its all for the best, really, and if 
this is how you lose your soul, I am all for it.
	There have been some bad moments. I remember one night 
after typing a good 4 hours or so, I felt I had had some 
astonishing luck when  I hit something or other  there was a 
flash of blue light and the many pages of writing vanished. I 
tried everything to get them back. They were simply gone. Yes, 
I had it set on Save-all, it still didnt matter. This had 
happened at other times but not with so many pages. Let me 
tell you, it is one hell of a hell of a horrible feeling when 
the pages vanish. Come think of it now, I have lost 3 or 4 
pages at other times on my novel. A whole chapter. What I did 
then was simply rewrite the whole damn thing. When you do 
this, you lose something, little highlights that dont return 
but you gain something too because as you rewrite you skip 
some parts that didnt quite please you and you add some parts 
that are better. So? Well, its a long night then. The birds 
are up. The wife and the cats think youve gone mad.
	I consulted some computer experts about the blue flash 
but none of them could tell me anything. Ive found out that 
most computer experts arent very expert. Confounding things 
happen that just arent in the book. Now that I know more 
about computers I think I know one thing that might have 
brought the work back from the blue flash...
	The worst night was when I sat down to the computer and it 
went completely crazy, sending out bombs, weird loud sounds, 
moments of darkness, deathly blackness, I worked and worked 
and worked but could do nothing. Then I noticed what looked 
like liquid that had hardened on the screen and around the 
slot near the brain, the slot where you inserted the disks. 
One of my cats had sprayed the machine. I had to take it down 
to the computer shop. The mechanic was out and a salesman 
removed a portion of the brain, a yellow liquid splashed on 
his white shirt and he screamed cat spray! Poor guy. Poor 
guy. Anyhow, I left the computer. Nothing in the warranty 
covered cat spray. They had to take practically all the guts 
out of the brain. It ook them 8 days to fix it. During that 
time I went back to my typewriter. It was like trying to break 
rock with my hands. I had to learn to type all over again. I 
had to get good and drunk to get the flow. And again, it was 
one night to write it and another night to straighten it out. 
But I was glad the typer was there. We had been toghether over 
5 decades and had some great times. When I got the computer 
back it was with some sadness that I returned the old typer to 
its place in the corner. But I went back to the computer and 
the words flew like crazy birds. And there were no longer any 
blue flashes and pages that vanished. Things were even better. 
That cat spraying the machine fixed everything up. Only now, 
when I leave the computer I cover it with a large each towel 
and close the door.
	Yes, its been my most productive year. Wine gets better 
if its properly aged.
	Im not in contest with anybody, have no thoughts about 
immortality, dont give a damn about it. Its the ACTION while 
youre alive. The gate springing open in the sunlight, the 
horses plunging through the light, all the jocks, brave little 
devils in their bright silks, going for it, doing it. The 
glory is in the motion and the dare. Death be damned. Its 
today and today and today. Yes.


12/9/91										1:18	AM

	The tide ebbs. I sit and stare at a paper clip for 5 
minutes. Yesterday, coming in on the freeway, it was evening 
going into darkness. There was a light fog. Christmas was 
coming like a harpoon. Suddenly I noticed that I was driving 
almost alone. Then in the road I saw a large bumper attached 
to a piece of grill. I avoided it in time, then looked to my 
right. There was a pile-up of cars, 4 or 5 cars but there was 
silence, no movement, nobody around, no fire, no smoke, no 
headlights. I was going too fast to see if there were people 
in the cars. Then, at once, evening became night. Sometimes 
there is no warning. Things occur in seconds. Everything 
changes. Youre alive. Youre dead. And things move on.
	We are paper thin. We exist on luck amid the percentages, 
temporarily. And thats the best part and the worse part, the 
temporal factor. And theres nothing you can do about it. You 
can sit on top of a mountain and meditate for decades and its 
not going to alter. You can alter yourself into acceptability 
but maybe thats wrong too. Maybe we think too much. Feel 
more, think less.
	All the cars in that pile-up seemed to be gray. Odd.
	I like the way philosophers break down the concepts and 
theories which have preceded them. Its been going on for 
centuries. No, thats not the way, they say. This is the way. 
It goes on and on and seems very sensible, this onwardness. 
The main problem for the philosophers is that they must 
humanize their language, make it more accessible, then the 
thoughts light up better, are more intersting still. I think 
that they are learning this. Simplicity is the key.
	In writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled 
and choppy but if they slide along then a certain delight 
lights up everything. Careful writing is deathly writing. I 
think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at playing with 
words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He 
PAINTED his words on paper. And they were so simple that you 
felt rushes of light, doors openin, walls glistening. You 
could see rugs and shoes and fingers. He had the words. 
Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They could take 
you right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something, he had the 
instinct. Hemingway tried too hard. You could feel the had 
work in his writing. They were hard blocks stuck together. And 
Anderson could laugh while he was telling you something 
serious. Hemingway could never laugh. Anybody who writes 
standing up at 6 a.m. in the morning has no sense of humor. He 
wants to defeat something.
	Tired tonight. Damn, I dont get enough sleep. I would 
love to sleep until noon but with the first post at 12:30, add 
the drive and getting your figures ready, I have to leave here 
about 11 a.m., before the mailman gets here. And Im seldom 
asleep until 2 a.m. or so. Get up a couple of times to piss. 
One of the cats awakens me at 6 a.m. on the dot, morning after 
morning, hes got to go out. Then too, the lonelyhearts like 
to phone before 10 a.m. I dont answer, the machine takes the 
message. I mean, my sleep is broken. But if this is all I have 
to bitch about then Im in grand shape.
	No horses for the next 2 days. I wont be up until noon 
tomorrow and Il feel like a powerhouse, ten years younger. 
Hell, thats to laugh  ten years younger would make me 61, 
you call that a break? Let me cry, let me cry.
	Its 1 a.m. Why dont I stop now and get some sleep?

1/18/92										11:59 PM

	Well, I move back and forth between the novel and the poem 
and the racetrack and Im still alive. There isnt much going 
on at the track, Im just struck with humanity and there I am. 
Then theres the freeway, to get there and back. The freeway 
always reminds you of what most people are. Its a competitive 
society. They want you to lose so they can win. Its inbred 
and much of it comes out on the freeway. The slow drivers want 
to block you, the fast drivers want to get around you. I hold 
it at 70 so I pass and am passed. The fast drivers I dont 
mind. I get out of their way and let them go. Its the slow 
ones who are the irritant, those who do 55 in the fast lane. 
And sometimes you can get boxed in. And you see enough of the 
head and the neck of the driver ahead of you to take a 
reading. The reading is that this person is asleep at the 
sould and at the same time embittered, gross, cruel and 
stupid.
	I hear a voice now saying to me, You are stupid to think 
like that. You are stupid one.
	There are always those who will defend the subnormals in 
society because they dont realize it is that they too are 
subnormal. We have a subnormal society and thats why they act 
as they do and do to each other what they do. But thats their 
business and I dont mind it except that I have to live with 
them.
	I recall once having dinner with a group of people. At a 
nearby table there was another group of people. They talked 
loudly and kept laughing. But their laughter was utterly 
false, forced. It went on and on.
	Finally, I said to the people at our table, Its pretty 
bad, isnt it?
	One of the people at our table turned to me, put on a 
sweet smile and said, I like it when people are happy.
	I didnt respon. But I felt a dark black hole welling in 
my gut. Well, hell.
	You get a reading on people on the freeways. You get a 
reading on people at dinner tables. You get a reading on 
people on tv. You get a reading on people in the supermarket, 
etc., etc. Its the same reading. What can you do? Duck and 
hold on. Pour another drink. I like it when people are happy 
too. I just havent seen very many.
	So, I got to the track today and took my seat. There was a 
guy wearing a red cap backwards. One of those caps that the 
tracks give away. Giveaway Day. He had his Racing Form and a 
harmonica. He picked up the harmonica and blew. He didnt know 
how to play it. He just blew. And it wasnt Schoenbers 12 to 
scale either. It was a 2 or 3 tone scale. He ran out of wind 
and picked up his Racing Form.
	In front of me sat the same 3 guys who were there all 
week. A guy about 60 who always wore brown clothes and brown 
hat. Next to him was a crooked neck and round shoulders. Next 
to him was an oriental about 45 who kept smoking cigarettes. 
Before each race they discussed which horse they were going to 
bet. These were amazing bettors, much like the Crazy Screamer 
I told you about before. Ill tell you why. I have sat behind 
them for two weeks now. And none of them has yet picked a 
winner. And they bet the short odds too, I mean between 2 to 1 
and 7 or 8 to 1. Thats maybe 45 races times 3 selections. 
Thats amazing statistic. Think about it. Say if each of them 
just picked a number like 1 or 2 or 3 and stayed with it they 
would automatically pick a winner. But by jumping around they 
somehow managed, using all their brain power and know-how, to 
keep on missing. Why do they keep coming to the racetrack? 
Arent they ashamed of their ineptness? No, there is always 
the next race. Someday they will hit. Big.
	You must understand then, when I come from the track and 
off of the freeway, why this computer looks so good to me? A 
clean screen to lay words on. My wife and my 9 cats seem like 
the geniuses of the world. They are.


2/8/92										1:16 AM

	What do the writers do when they arent writing? Me, I go 
to the racetrack. Or in the early days, I starved or worked at 
gut-wrenching jobs.
	I stay away from writers now  or people who call 
themselves writers. But from 1970 until about 1975 when I just 
decided to sit in one place and write or die, writers came by, 
all of them poets. POETS. And I discovered a curious thing: 
none of them had any visible means of support. If they had 
books out they didnt sell. And if they gave poetry readings, 
few attended, say from 4 to 14 other POETS. But they all lived 
in fairly nice apartments and seemed to have plenty of time to 
sit on my couch and drink my beer. I had gotten the reputation 
in town of being the wild one, of having parties where untold 
things gappened and crazy women danced and broke things, or I 
threew people off my porch or there were police raids or etc. 
and etc. Much of this was true. But I also had to get the word 
down for my publisher and for the magazines to get the rent 
and the booze money, and this meant writing prose. But 
these... poets... only wrote poetry... I thought it was thind 
and pretentious stuff... but they went on with it, dressed 
themselves in a fairly nice manner, seened well-fed, and they 
had all this couch-sitting time and time to talk  about their 
poetry and themselves. I often asked, Listen, tell me, how do 
you make it? They just sat there and smiled at me and drank 
my beer and waited for some of my crazy women to arrive, 
hoping that they might somehow get some of it  sex, 
admiration, adventure or what the hell.
	It was getting clear in my mind then that I would have to 
get rid of these soft toadies. And gradually, I found out 
their secret, one by one. Most often in the background, well 
hidden, was the MOTHER. The mother took care of these 
geniuses, got the rent and the food and the cloghing.
	I remembered once, on a rare sojourn from my place, I was 
sitting in this POETs apartment. It was quite dull, nothing 
to drink. He sat speaking of how unfair it was that he wasnt 
more widely recognized. The editors, everybody was conspiring 
against him. He pointed his finger at me: You too, you told 
Martin not to publish me! It wasnt true. Then he went to 
bitching and babbling about other things. Then the phone rang. 
He picked it up and spoke guardedly and quietly. He hung up 
and turned to me.
	Its my mother, shes coming over. You have to leave!
	Its all right, Id like to meet your mother.
	No! No! Shes horrible! You have to leave! Now! Hurry!
	I took the elevator down and out. And wrote that one off.
	There was another one. His mother bought him his food, his 
car, his insurance, his rent and even wrote some of his stuff. 
Unbelievable. And it had gone on for decades.
	There was another fellow, he always seemed very calm, 
well-fed. He taught a poetry workshop at a church every Sunday 
afternoon. He had a nice apartment. He was a member of the 
communist party. Lets call him Fred. I asked an older lady 
who attended his workshop and admired him greatly, Listen, 
how does Fred make it? Oh, she said, Fred doesnt want 
anybody to know because hes very private that way but he 
makes his money by scrubbing food trucks.
	Food trucks?
	Yes, you know those wagons that go about dispensing 
coffee and sandwiches at break time and lunch time at work 
places, well, Fred scrubs those food trucks.
	A couple of years went by and then it was discovered that 
Fred also owned a couple of apartment houses and that he lived 
mainly off the rents. When I found this out I got drunk one 
night and drove over to Freds apartment. It was located over 
a little theater. Very arty stuff. I jumped out of my car and 
rang the bell. He wouldnt answer. I knew he was up there. I 
had seen his shadow moving behind the curtains. I went back to 
my car and started honking the horn and yelling, Hey, Fred, 
come on out! I threw a beer bottle at one of his windows. It 
bounced off. That got him. He came out on his little balcony 
and peered down at me. Bukowski, go away!.
	Fred, come on down here and Ill kick your ass, you 
communist land owner!
	He ran back inside. I stood there and waited for him. 
Nothing. Then I got the idea that he was calling the police. I 
had seen enough of them. I got into my car and drove back to 
my place.
	Another poet lived in this house down by the waterfront. 
Nice house. He never had a job. I kept after him, How do you 
make it? How do you make it? Finally, he gave in. My parents 
own property and I collect the rents for them. They pay me a 
salary. He got a damned good salary, I imagine. Anyhow, at 
least he told me.
	Some never do. There was this other guy. He wrote fair 
poetry but very little of it. He always had his nice 
apartment. Or he was going off to Hawaii or somewhere. He was 
one of the most relaxed of them all. Always in new and freshly 
pressed clothing, new shoes. Neved needed a shave, a haircut, 
had bright flashing teeth. Come on, baby, how do you make 
it? he never let on. He didnt even smile. He just stood 
there silently.
	Then theres another type that lives on handouts. I wrote 
a poem about one of them but never sent it out because I 
finally felt sorry for him. Here is some of it jammed 
together:

	Jack with the hair hanging, Jack demanding money, Jack of 
the big gut, Jack of the loud, loud voice, Jack of the trade, 
Jack who prances before the ladies, Jack who thinks hes a 
genius, Jack who pukes, Jack who badmounts the lucky, Jack 
getting older and older, Jack still demanding money, Jack 
sliding down the beanstalk, Jack who talks about it but 
doesnt do it, Jack who gets away with murder, Jack who jacks, 
Jack who talks of the old days, Jack who talks and talks, Jack 
with the hand out, Jack who terrorizes the weak, Jack the 
embittered, Jack of the coffee shops, Jack screaming for 
recognition, Jack who never has a job, Jack who totally 
overrates his potential, Jack who keeps screaming about his 
unrecognized talent, Jack who blames everbody else.
	

	You know who Jack is, you saw him yesterday, youll see 
him tomorrow, youll see him next week.

	
	Wanting it without doing it, wanting it free.

	Wanting fame, wanting women, wanting everything.

	A world full of Jacks sliding down the beanstalk.


	Now Im tired of writing about poets. But I will add that 
they are hurting themselves by living as poets instead of as 
something else. I worked as a common laborer until I was 50. I 
was jammed in with the people. I never claimed to be a poet. 
Now I am not saying that working for a living is a grand 
thing. In most cases it is a horrible thing. And often you 
must fight to keep a horrible job because there are 25 guys 
standing behind you ready to take the same job. Of course, 
its senseless, of course it flattens you out. But being in 
that mess, I think, taught me to lay off the bullshit when I 
did write. I think you have get your face in the mud now and 
then, I think you have to know what a jail is, a hospital is. 
I think you have to know what it feels like to go without food 
for 4 or 5 days. I think that living with insane women is good 
for the backbone. I think you can write with joy and release 
after youve been in he vise. I only say this because all the 
poets I have met have been soft jellyfish, sycophants. They 
have nothing to write about except their selfigh nonendurance.
	Yes, I stay away from the POETS. Do you blame me?

3/16/92										12:53 AM

	I have no idea what causes it. Its just there: a certain 
feeling for writers of the past. And my feelings arent even 
accurate, they are just mine, almost entirely invented. I 
think of Sherwood Anderson, for instance, as a little fellow, 
slightly slump-shouldered. he was probably straight and tall. 
No matter. I see him my way. (Ive never seen a photo of him.) 
Dostoevsky I see as a bearded fellow on the heavy side with 
dark green smoldering eyes. First he was too heavy, then too 
thin, the too heavy. Nonsense, surely, but I like my nonsense. 
I even see Dostoevsky as a fellow who lusted for little girls. 
Faulkner, I see in a rather dim light as a crank and fellow 
with bad breath. Gorky, I see as a sneak drunk. Tolstoy as a 
man who went into rages over nothing at all. I see Hemingway 
as a fellow who practiced ballet behind closed doors. I see 
Celine as a fellow who had problems sleeping. I see e.e. 
cumming as a great pool player. I couldnt go on and on.
	Mainly I had these visions when I was a starving writer, 
half-mad, and unable to fit into society. I had very little 
food but had much time. Whoever the writers were, they were 
magic to me. They opened door differently. They needed a stiff 
drink upon awakening. Life was too god-damned much for them. 
Each day was like walking in wet concrete. I made them my 
heroes. I fed upon them. My ideas of them supported me in my 
nowhere. Thinking about them was much better than reading 
them. Like D. H. Lawrence. What a wicked little guy. He knew 
so much that it just kept him pissed-off all the time. Lovely, 
lovely. And Aldous Huxley... brain power to spare. He knew so 
much it gave him headaches.
	I would stretch out on my starvation bed and think about 
these fellows.
	Literature was so... Romantic. Yeah.
	But the composers and painters were good too, alway going 
mad, suiciding, doing strange and obnoxious things. Suicide 
seemed such a good idea. I even tried it a few times myself, 
failed but came close, gave it some good tries. Now here I am 
almost 72 years old. My heroes are long past gone and Ive had 
to live with others. Some of the new creators, some of the 
newly famous. They arent the same to me. I look at them, 
listen to them and I think, is this all there is? I mean, they 
look comfortable... they bitch... but they look COMFORTABLE. 
Theres no wildness. The only ones who seem wild are those who 
have failed as artists and believe that the failure is the 
fault of outside forces. And they create badly, horribly.
	I have nobody to focus on anymore. I cant even focus on 
myself. I used to be in and out of jails, I used to break down 
doors, smash windows, drink 29 day a month. Now I sit in front 
of this computer with the radio on, listening to classical 
music. Im not even drinking tonight. I am pacing myself. For 
what? Do I want to live to be 80, 90? I dont mind dying... 
but not this year, all right?
	I dont know, it just was different back then. He writers 
seemed more like... writers. Things were done. The Black Sun 
Press. The Crosbys. And damned if once I didnt cross back 
into that age. Caresse Crosby published one of my stories in 
her Portfolio magazine along with Sartre, I think, and Henry 
Miller and I think, maybe, Camus. I dont have the mag now. 
People steal from me. They take my stuff when they drink with 
me. Thats why more and more I am alone. Anyhow, somebody else 
must also miss the Roaring 20s and Gertrude Stein and 
Picasso... James Joyce, Lawrence and the gang.
	To me it seems that were not getting through like we used 
to. Its like weve used up the options, its like we cant do 
it anymore.
	I sit here, light a cigarette, listen to the music. My 
health is good and I hope that I am writing as well or better 
than ever. But everything else I read seems so... practiced... 
its like a well-learned style. Maybe Ive read too much, 
maybe Ive read too long. Also, after decades and decades of 
writing (and Ive written a boat load) when I read another 
writer I believe I can tell exactly when hes faking, the lies 
jump out, the slick polish grates... I can guess what he next 
line will be, the next paragraph...
Theres no flash, no dash, no change-taking. Its a job 
theyve learned, like fixing a leaky faucet.
	It was better for me when I could imagine greatness in 
others, even if it wasnt always there.
	In my mind I saw Gorky in a Russian flophouse asking for 
tobacco from the fellow next to him. I saw Robinson Jeffers 
talking to a horse. I saw Faulkner starting at the last drink 
in the bottle. Of course, of course, it was foolish. Young is 
foolish and old is the fool.
	Ive had to adjust. But for all of us, even now, the next 
line is always there and it may be the line that finally 
breaks through, finally says it. We can sleep on that during 
the slow nights and hope for the best.
	Were probably as good now as those bastards back then 
were. And some of the young are thinking of me as I thought of 
them. I know, I get letters. I read them and throw them away. 
These are the towering Nineties. Theres the next line. And 
the line after that. Until there are no more.
	Yeah. One more cigarete. Then I think Ill take a bath and 
go to sleep.


4/16/92										12:39 AM

	Bad day at the track. On the drive in, I always mull over 
which system I am going to use. I must have 6 or 7. And I 
certainly picked the wrong one. Still, I will never lose my 
ass and my mind at the track. I just dont bet that much. 
Years of poverty have made me wary. Even my winning days are 
hardly stupendous. Yet, Id rather be right than wrong, 
especially when you give up hours of your life. One can feel 
time actually being murdered out there. Today, they were 
approaching the gate for the 2nd race. There were still 3 
minutes to go and the horses and riders were slowly 
approaching. For some reason, ti seemed an agonizingly long 
time for me. When youre in your 70s it hurts more to have 
somebody pissing on your time. Of course, I know, I had put 
myself into a position to be pissed upon.
	I used to go to the night greyhound races in Arizona. Now, 
they knew what they were doing there. Just turn your back to 
get a drink and there was another race going off. No 30 minute 
waiting periods. Zip, zip, they ran them one after the other. 
It was refreshing. The night air was cold and the action was 
continuous. You didnt believe that somebody was trying to saw 
off your balls between races. And after it was all over, you 
werent worn down. You could drink the remainder of the night 
and fight with your girlfriend.
	But at the horse races its hell. I stay isolated. I dont 
talk to anybody. That helps. Well, the mutuel clerks know me. 
Ive got to go to the windows, use my voice. Over the years, 
they get to know you. And most of them are fairly decent 
people. I think that their years of dealing with humanity has 
given them certain insights. For instance, they know that most 
of the human race is one large piece of crap. Still, I also 
keep my distance from the mutuel clerks. By keeping counsel 
with myself, I get an edge. I could stay home and do this. I 
could lock the door and fiddle with paints or something. But 
somehow, Ive got to get out, and make sure that almost all 
humanity is still a large piece of crap. As if they would 
change! Hey, baby, Ive got to be crazy. Yet there is 
something out there, I mean, I dont think about dying out 
there, for example, you feel too stupid being out there to be 
able to think. Ive taken a notebook, thought, well, Ill 
write a few things between races. Impossible. The air is flat 
and heavy, we are all voluntary members of a concentration 
camp. When I get home, then I can muse about dying. Just a 
little. Not too much. I dont worry about dying or feel sorry 
about dying. It just seems like a lousy job. When? Next 
Wednesday night? Or when Im asleep? Or because of the next 
horrible hangover? Traffic accident? Its a load, its 
something thats got to be done. And Im going out without the 
God-belief. Thatll be good, I can face it head on. Its 
something you have to do like putting your shoes on in the 
morning. I think Im going to miss writing. Writing is better 
than drinking. And writing while youre drinking, thats 
always made the walls dance. Maybe theres a hell, what? All 
the poets will be there reading their works and I will have to 
listen. I will be drowned in their peening vanity, their 
overflowing self-esteem. If there is a hell, that will be my 
hell: poet after poet reading on and on...
	Anyway, a particularly bad day. This system that usually 
worked didnt work. The gods shuffle the deck. Time is 
mutilated and you are a fool. But time is made to be wasted. 
What are you going to do about it? You cant always be roaring 
full steam. You stop and you go. You hit a high and then you 
fall into a black pit. do you have a cat? Or cats? They sleep, 
baby. They can sleep 2% hours a day and they look beautiful 
They know that theres nothing to get excited about. The next 
meal. And a little something to kill now and then. When Im 
being torn by the forces, I just look at one or more of my 
cats. There are 9 of them. I just look at one of them sleeping 
or half-sleeping and I relax. Writing is also my cat. Writing 
lets me face it. It chills me out. For a while anyhow. Then my 
wires get crossed and I have to do it all over again. I cant 
understand writers who decide to stop writing. How do they 
chill out?
	Well, the track was dull and deathly out there today but 
here I am back home and Ill be there tomorrow, most probably. 
How do I manage it?
	Some of it is the power of routine, a power that holds 
most of us. A place to go, a thing to do. We are trained from 
th beginning. Move out, get into it. Maybe theres something 
interesting out there? What an ignorant dream. Its like when 
I used to pick up women in bars. Id think, maybe this is the 
one. Another routine. Yet, even during the sex act, Id think, 
this is another routine. Im doing what Im supposed to do. I 
felt ridiculous but I went ahead anyhow. What else could I do? 
Well, I should have crawled off and said, Look, baby, we are 
being very foolish here. We are just tools of nature.
	What do you mean?
	I mean, baby, you ever watched two flies fucking or 
something like that?
	YOURE CRAZY! IM GETTING OUT OF HERE!
	We cant examine ourselves too closely or well stop 
living, stop doing everything. Like the wise men who just sit 
on a rock and dont move. I dont know if thats so wise 
either. They discard the obvious but something makes them 
discard it. In a sense, they are one-fly-fucking. Theres no 
escape, action or inaction. We just have to write ourselves 
off as a loss: any move on the on the board leads to 
checkmate.
	So, it was a bad day at the track today, I got a bad taste 
in the mouth of my soul. But Ill go tomorrow. Im afraid not 
to. Because when I get back the words crawling across this 
computer screen really fascinate my weary ass. I leave it so 
that I can come back to it. Of course, of course. Thats it. 
Isnt it?


6/26/92										12:34 AM

	I have probably written more and better in the past 2 
years than at any time in my life. Its as if from over 5 
decades of doing it, I might have gotten close to really doing 
it. Yet, in the past 2 months I have begun to feel a 
weariness. The weariness is mostly physical, yet its also a 
touch spiritual. It could be that I am ready to go into 
decline. Its a horrible thought, of course, The ideal was to 
continue until the moment of my death, not to fade away. In 
1989 I overcame TB. This year it has been an eye operation 
that has not as yet worked out. And a painful right let, 
ankle, foot. Small things. Bits of skin cancer. Death nipping 
at my heels, letting me know. Im and old fart, thats all. 
Well, I couldnt drink myself to death. I came close but I 
didnt. Now I deserve to live with what is left.
	So, I havent written for 3 nights. Should I go mad? Even 
at my lowest times I can feel the words bubbling inside of me, 
getting ready. I am not in a contest. I never wanted it, 
thats all. And I had to get the word down the way I wanted 
it, thats all. And I had to get the words down or be overcome 
by something worse than death. Words not as precious things 
but as necessary things.
	Yet when I begin to doubt my ability to work the word I 
simply read another writer and then I know that I have nothing 
to worry about. My contest is only with myself: to do it 
right, with power and force and delight and gamble. Otherwise, 
forget it.
	I have been wise enough to remain isolated. Visitors to 
this house are rare. My 9 cats run like mad when a human 
arrives. And my wife, too, is getting to be more and more like 
me. I dont want this for her. Its natural for me. But for 
Linda, no. Im glad when she takes the car and goes off to 
some gathering. After all, I have my go-damned racetrack. I 
can always write about the racetrack, that great empty hole of 
nowhere. I go there to sacrifice myself, to mutilate the 
hours, to murder them. The hours must be killed. While you are 
waiting. The perfect hours must be killed. While you are 
waiting. The perfect hours are the ones at this machine. But 
you must have impefect hours to get perfect hours. You must 
kill ten hours to make two hours live. What you must be 
careful of is not to kill ALL the hours, ALL the years.
	You fix yourself up to be a writer by doing the 
instinctive things which feed you and the word, which protect 
you against death in life. For each, it changes. Once for me 
it meant very heavy drinking, drinking to the point of 
madness. It sharpened the word for me, brought it out. And I 
needed danger. I needed to put myself into dangerous 
situations. With men. With women. With automobiles. With 
gambling. With starvation. With anything. It fed the word. I 
had decades of that. Now it has changed. What I need now is 
more subtle, more invisible. Its a feeling in the air. Words 
spoken, words heard. Things seen. I still need a few drinks. 
But I am now into nuances and shadows. I am fed words by 
things that I am hardly aware of. This is good. I write a 
different kind of crap now. Some have noticed.
	You have broken through, is mainly what they tell me.
	I am aware of what they sense. I feel it too. The words 
have gotten simpler yet warmer, darker. I am being fed from 
new sources. Being near death is energizing. I have all the 
advantages. I can see and feel things that are hidden from the 
young. I have gone from the power of youth to the power of 
age. There will be no decline. Uh uh. Now, pardon me, I must 
got to be, its 12:55 a.m. Talking the night off. Have your 
laugh while you can...


8/24/92										12:28 AM

	Well, Ive been 72 years old for 8 days and nights now and 
Ill never be able to say that again.
	Its been a bad couple of months. Weary. Physically and 
spiritually. Death means nothing. Its walking around with 
your ass dragging, its when the words dont come flying form 
the machine, theres the gyp.
	Now in my lower lip and under the lower lip, there is a 
large puffiness. And I have no energy. I didnt go to the 
track today. I just stayed in bed. Tired, tired. The Sunday 
crowds at the track are the worst. I have problems with the 
human face. I find it very difficult to look at. I find the 
sum total of each persons life written there and it is a 
horrible sight. When one sees thousands of faces in one day, 
its tiring from the top of the head to the toes. And all 
through the gut. Sundays are so crowded. Its amateur day. 
They scream and curse. They rage. Then they go limp and leave, 
broke. What did they expect?
	I had a cataract operation on my right eye a few months 
ago. The operation was not nearly as simple as the 
misinformation I gathered from people who claimed to have had 
eye operations. I heard my wife talking to ther mother on the 
telephone: You say it was over in a few minutes? And that you 
drove your car home afterwards? Another old guy told me, Oh 
its nothing, its over in a flash and you just go about your 
business as normal. Others spoke about the operation in an 
off-hand manner. It was a walk in the park. Now, I didnt ask 
for any of these people for information about the operation, 
they just came out with it. And after a while, I began to 
believe it. Although I still wonder how a thing as delicate as 
the eye could be treated more or less like cutting a toenail.
On my first visit to the doctor, he examined the eye and 
said that I needed an operation.
O.k., I said, lets do it.
What? he asked.
Lets do it now. Lets rock and roll!
Wait, he said, first we must make an appointment with a 
hospital. Then there are other preparations. First, we want to 
show you a movie about the operation. Its only about 15 
minutes long.
The operation?
No, the movies.
What happens is that they take out the complete lens of 
the eye and replace it with an artifical lens. The lens is 
stitched in and the eye must adjust and recover. After about 3 
weeks the stitches are removed. Its no walk in the park and 
the operation takes much longer than a couple of minutes.
Anyhow, after it was all over, my wifes mother said it 
was probably an after-operational procedure she was thinking 
of. And the old guy? I asked him, How long did it take for 
your sight to really get better after your eye operation? 
Im not so sure I had an operation, he said.
Maybe I got this fat lip from drinking from the cats 
water bowl?
I feel a little better tonight. Six days a week at the 
racetrack can burn anybody out. Try is some time. Then come in 
and work on your novel.
Or maybe death is giving me some signs?
The other day I was thinking about the world without me. 
There is the world going on doing what it does. And Im not 
there. Very odd. Think of the garbage truck coming by and 
picking up the garbage and Im not there. Or the newspaper 
sits in the drive and Im not there to pick it up. Impossible. 
And worse, some time after Im dead, Im going to be truly 
discovered. All those who were afraid of me or hated me when I 
was alive will suddenly embrace me. My words will be 
everywhere. Clubs and societies will be formed. It will be 
sickening. A movie will be made of my life. I will be made a 
much more courageous and talented man tahn I am. Much more. It 
will be enough to make the gods puke. The human race 
exaggerates everything: its heroes, its enemies, its 
importance.
The fuckers. There, I feel better. God-damned human race. 
There, I feel better.
The night is cooling off. Maybe Ill pay the gas bill. I 
remember in south central L.A. they shot a lady named Love for 
not paying her gas bill. The co. wanted to shut it off. Forget 
what with. Maybe a shovel. Cops came. Dont remember how it 
worked. Think she reached for something in her apron. They 
shot and killed her.
All right, all right, Ill pay the gas bill.
I worry about my novel. Its about a detective. But I keep 
getting him into these almost impossible situations and then I 
have to work him out. I sometimes think about how to get him 
out while Im at the racetrack. And I know that my editor-
publisher is curious. Maybe he thinks the work isnt literary. 
I say that anything I do is literary even if I try not to make 
it literary. He should trust me by now. Well, if he doesnt 
want it, Ill unload it elsewhere. It will sell as well as 
anything Ive written, not because its better but because 
its just as good and my crazy readers are ready for it.
Look, maybe a good nights sleep tonight and Ill wake up 
in the morning without this fat lip. Can you imagine me 
leaning toward the teller with this big lip and saying, 20 
win on the 6 horse? Sure. I know. He wouldnt have even 
noticed. My wife asked me, Didnt you always have that?
Jesus Christ.
Do you know that cats sleep 20 hours out of 24? No wonder 
they look better than I.


8/28/92										12:40 AM

	There are thousands of traps in life and most of us fall 
into many of them. The idea though, is to stay out of as many 
of them as possible. Doing so helps you remain as alive as you 
might until you die...
	The letter arrived from the offices of one of the network 
television stations. It was quite simple, stating that this 
fellow, lets call him Joe Singer, wants to come by. To talk 
about certain possibilities. On page 1 of the letter were 
stuck 2 one hundred dollar bills. On page 2 there was another 
hundred. I was on the way to the racetrack. I found that the 
hundred dollar bills peeled off of the pages nicely without 
damage. There was a phone number. I decided to call Joe Singer 
that night after the races.
	Which I did. Joe was casual, easy. The idea, he said, was 
to create a series for tv based on a writer like myself. An 
old guy who was still writing, drinking, playing the horses.
	Why dont we get together and talk about it? he asked.
	Youll have to come here, I said, at night.
	O.k., he said, when?
	Night after next.
	Fine. You know who I want to get to play you?
	Who?
	He mentioned an actor, lets call him Harry Dane. I always 
liked Harry Dane.
	Great, I said, and thanks for the 300.
	We wanted to get your attention.
	You did.

	Well, the night came around and there was Joe Singer. He 
seemed likeable enough, intelligent, easy. We drank and 
talked, about horses and various things. Not much about the 
television series. Linda, my wife, was with us.
	But tell us more about the series, she said.
	Its all right, Linda, I said, were just relaxing...
	I felt Joe Singer had more or less come by to see if I was 
crazy or not.
	All right, he said reaching into his briefcase, heres 
a rough idea...
	He handed me 4 or 5 sheets of paper. It was mostly a 
description of the main character and I thought they had 
gotten me down fairly well. The old writer lived with this 
young girl just out of college, she did all his dirty work, 
lined up his readings and stuff like that.
	The station wanted this young girl in there, you know, 
said Joe.
	Yeah, I said.
	Linda didnt say anything.
	Well, said Joe, you look this over again. There are 
also some ideas, plot ideas, each episode will have a diferent 
slant, you know, but it will all be based on your character.
	Yeah, I said. But I was beginning to get a bit 
apprehensive. 
	We drank another couple of hours. I dont remember much 
abou the conversation. Small talk. And the night ended...

	The next day after the track I turned to the page about 
the episode ideas.

1. Hanks craving for a lobster dinner is thwarted by 
animal rights activists.
2. Secretary ruins Hanks chances with a poetry groupie.
3. To honor Hemingway, Hank bangs a broad named Millie 
whose husband, a jockey, wants to pay Hank to keep 
banging. There must be a catch.
4. Hank allows a young male artist to paint his portrait 
and is painted into a corner into revealing his own 
homosexual experience.
5. A friend of Hanks wants him to invest in his latest 
scheme. An industrial use for recycled vomit.

I got Joe on the phone.
	Jesus, man, whats about a homosexual experience? I 
havent had any.
Well, we dont have to use that one.
Lets not. Listen, Ill talk to you later, Joe.
I hung up. Things were getting strange.

I phoned Harry Dane, the actor. Hed been over to the 
place two or three times. He had this great weatherbeaten face 
and he talked straight. He had few affectations. I liked him.
Harry, I said, theres this tv outfit, channel  they 
want to do a series based on me and they want you to play me. 
You heard from them?
No.
I thought I might get you and this guy together and see 
what happens.
Channel what?
I told him the channel.
But thats commercial tv, censorship, commercials, laugh 
tracks.
This guy Joe Singer claims they have a lot of freedom 
with what they can do.
Its censorship, you cant offend the advertisers.
What I like most is that he wanted you for the lead. Why 
dont you come to my place and meet him?
I like your writing, Hank, if we could get, say, HBO 
maybe we could do it right.
Well, yeah. But why dont you come over, see what he has 
to say? I havent seen you for a while.
Thats right. Well, Ill come but it will mainly to see 
you and Linda.
	Fine. How about the night after next? Ill set it up.
O.k., he said.

I phoned Joe Singer.
 	Joe. Night after next, 9 p.m. Ive got Harry Dane coming 
over.
	O.k., great. We can send a limo for him.
	Would he be alone in the limo?
	Maybe. Or maybe some of our people would be in it.
	Well, I dont know. Let me call you back...

	Harry, they are trying to suck you in, they want to send 
a limo for you.
	Would it be just for me?
	He wasnt sure.
	Can I have his phone number?
	Sure.
	And that was it.

	When I came in after the track the next day Linda said, 
Harry Dane phoned. We talked about the tv thing. He asked if 
we needed money. I told him we didnt.
	Is he still coming by?
	Yes.
	I came in a little early from the track the following day. 
I decided to hit the Jacuzzi. Linda was out, probably buying 
libations for the meeting. I, myself, was getting a little 
scared about the tv series. They could really fuck me over. 
Old writer does this. Old writer does that. Laugh track. Old 
writer gets drunk, misses poetry meeting. Well, that wouldnt 
be so bad. But I wouldnt want to write he crap, so writing 
wouldnt be that good. Here I had written for decades in small 
rooms, sleeping on park benches, sitting in bars, working all 
the stupid jobs, meanwhile writing exactly as I wanted to and 
felt I had to. My work was finally getting recognized. And I 
was still writing the way I wanted to and felt that I had to. 
I was still writing to keep from going crazy, I was still 
writing, trying to explain this god-damned life to myself. And 
here I was being talked into a tv series on commecial tv. All 
I had fought so hard for could be laughed off the boards by 
some sitcom series with a laugh track. Jesus, Jesus.
	I got undressed and stepped outside to the Jacuzzi. I was 
thinking about the tv series, my past life, now and everything 
else. I wasnt too aware. I stepped into the Jacuzzi at the 
wrong end.
	I realized it the moment I stepped in. There werent any 
steps at that end. It happened quickly. There was a small 
platform further in built to sit on. My right foot caught 
that, slipped off, and I was thrown off balance.
	Youre going to hit your head against the edge of the 
Jacuzzi, went through my mind.
	I concetrated on pushing my head forward as I fell, 
letting all the rest go to hell. My right leg took the brunt 
of the fall, I twisted it but managed to keep my head from 
hitting the edge. Then I just floated in the bubbling water 
feeling the shots of pain in my right leg. Id ben having leg 
pains there anyhow, now it was really torn up. I felt foolish 
about it all. I could have knocked myself out. I could have 
drowned. Linda would have come back to find me floating and 
dead.

	FAMOUS WRITER, FORMER SKID ROW POET AND DRUNK
	FOUND DEAD IN HIS JACUZZI. HE HAD JUST SIGNED
	CONTRACT FOR A SITCOM BASED UPON HIS LIFE.

	Thats not even a ignoble ending. That is just being shit 
on entirely by the gods.
	I managed to get out of Jacuzzi and make my way into the 
house. I could barely walk. Each step on the right leg brought 
a mighty pain up the let from the ankle to the knee. I hobbled 
toward the refrigerator and pulled out a beer...
	Harry Dane arrived first. He had come in his own car. We 
brought out the wine and I began pouring them. By the time Joe 
Singer arrived, wed had a few. I made the introductions. Joe 
laid out the general format for the proposed series for Harry. 
Harry was smoking, and drinking his wine pretty fast.
	Yeah, yeah, he said, but a sound track? And Hank and I 
would have to have total control over the material. Then, I 
dont know. Theres censorship...
	Censorship? What censorship? asked Joe.
	Sponsors, you have to please the sponsors. Theres a 
limit on how far you can go with material.
	Well have total freedom, said Joe.
	You cant have, said Harry.
	Laugh tracs are awful, said Linda.
	Yeah, I said.
	Then too, said Harry, Ive been in a tv series. Its a 
drag, it takes hours and hours a day, its worse that shooting 
a movie. Its a hard work.
	Joe didnt answer.
	We all went on drinking. A couple of hours passed. The 
same thing seemed to be said over and over again. Harry saying 
maybe we should go to HBO. And that laugh tracks were awful. 
And Joe saying that everything would be all right, that there 
was plenty of freedom on commercial tv, that times had 
changed. It was really boring, really awful. Harry was really 
pouring down the wine. Then he got into what was wrong with 
the world and the main causes of it. He had a certain line he 
repeated quite often. It was a good line. Unfortunately, it 
was so good that I have forgotten it. But Harry went on.
	All of a sudden Joe singer leaped up. Well, damn it, you 
guys have made a lot of lousy movies! Tv has done some good 
things! Everything we do isnt rotten! You guys keep on 
turning out crappy movies!
	Then he into the bathroom.
	Harry looked at me and grinned. Hey, he got mad, didnt 
he?
	Yeah, Harry.
	I poured some more wine. We sat and waited. Joe Singer 
stayed in the bathroom a long time. When he came out, Harry 
stood there talking to him. I couldnt hear what was being 
said. I think Harry felt sorry for him. It wasnt long after 
that, Singer started gathering his stuff into his briefcase. 
He walked to the door, then looked back at me, Ill phone 
you, he said.
	O.k., Joe
	Then he was gone.
	Linda, I and Harry kept on drinking. Harry went on with 
what was wrong with the world, repeating his good line which I 
cant remember. We didnt talk too much about the proposed tv 
series. When Harry left we worried about his driving. We said 
he could stay. He declined. He said he could make it. Luckily, 
he did.

	Joe Singer phoned the next evening.
	Listen, we dont need that guy. He doesnt want to work. 
We can get somebody else.
	But, Joe, one of the main reasons I was interested at 
first was because of the possibility of Harry Dane.
	We can get somebody else. Ill write you, Ill send you a 
list, Im going to work on it.
	I dont know, Joe...
	Ill write you. And listen, I talked to the people and 
they said, o.k., no laugh track. And they even said it would 
be o.k. to go to HBO. That surprised me because I work for 
them, I dont work for HBO. Anyhow, Ill send you a list of 
actors...
	All right, Joe...
	I was stuck in the web. Now I wanted out but I didnt 
quite know how to tell him. It surprised me, I was usually 
very good at getting rid of people. I felt guilty because he 
had probably put in a lot of work on the thing. And, 
originally, in the first flush of things, the idea of a series 
based mostly upon myself had probably appealed to my vanity. 
But now it didnt seem like a good thing. I felt crappy about 
the whole thing.

	A couple of days later the photos of the actors arrived, a 
mass of them, and the preferred ones were circled. The agents 
phone number was by each actors photo. I was sickened by 
looking at those faces, most of them smiling. The faces were 
bland, empty, very Hollywood, quite quite horrifying.
	Along with the photos was a short note:

	... going on a 3 week vacation. When I get back I am 
really going to kick this thing into gear...

	The faces did it to me. I couldnt handle it any longer. I 
sat down and let go at the computers.

	...Ive really been thinking about your project(s) and, 
frankly, I cant do it. It would mean the end of my life as I 
have lived it and have wanted to live it. Its just too big an 
intrusion into my existence. It would make me very unhappy, 
depressed. This feeling has been gradually coming over me but 
I just didnt quite know how to explain it to you. When you 
and harry Dane had a falling out the other night, I felt 
great, I felt, now, its over. But you bounce right back with 
a new list  of actors. I want out, that sense grew stronger 
and stronger as things went along. Nothing against you, you 
are an intellingetn young man who wants to pump some fresh 
blood into the tv scene  but let it not be mine. You may not 
undestand my concern but, believe me, its real, damned real. 
I should be honored that you want to display my life to the 
masses but, really, I am more than terrorized by the thought, 
I feel as if my very life were being threatened. I have to get 
out. I havent been able to sleep nights, I havent been able 
to think, I havent been able to do anything.
	Please, no phone calls, no letters. Nothing can change 
this.
	
	The next day on the way to the racetrack I dropped the 
letter into the mailbox. I felt reborn. I might still have to 
fight some more to get free. But Id go to court. Anything. 
Somehow, I felt sorry for Joe Singer. But, damn it all, I was 
free again.
	On the freeway I turned on the radion and lucked onto some 
Mozart. Life could be good at times but sometimes some of that 
was up to us.


8/30/92										1:30 AM

	Was going down the scalator at the track after the 6th 
race when the waiter saw me. You going home now? he asked?
	I wouldnt do that to you, amigo, I told him.
	The poor fellow had to bring the food from the track 
kitchen to the upper floors, carrying huge amounts of trays. 
When their clients ran out on them they had to pay the tab. 
Some of the players sat four to a table. The waiters could 
work all day and still owe the track money. And the crowded 
days were the worst, the waiters couldnt watch everybody. And 
when they did get paid the horseplayers tipped badly.
	I went down to the first floor and stepped outside, stood 
in the sun. It was great out there. Maybe Id just come to the 
track and stand in the sun. I seldom thought about writing out 
there but I did then. I thought about something that I had 
recently read, that I was probably the best selling poet in 
America and the most influential, the most copied. How 
strange. Well, to hell with that. All that counted was the 
next time I sat down to the computer. If I could still do it, 
I was alive, if I coulndt, everything that preceded meant 
little to me. But what was I doing, thinking about writing? I 
was cracking. I didnt even think about writing when I was 
writing. Then I heard the call to post, turned around, walked 
in and got back on the escalator. Going up, I passed a man who 
owed me money. He ducked his head down. I pretended not to see 
him. It didnt do any good after hed paid me, he only 
borrowed it back. And old guy had come up to me earlier that 
day: Gimme 60 cents! That gave him enough for a two buck 
bet, one more chance to dream. It was a sad god-damned place 
but almost every place was. There was no place to go. Well, 
there was, you could go to your room and close the door but 
then your wife got depressed. Or more depressed. America was 
the Land of Depressed Wives. And it was the fault of the men. 
Sure. Who else was around? You couldnt blame the birds, the 
dogs, the cats, the worms, the mice, the spiders, the fish, 
the etc. It was the men. And the men couldnt allow themselves 
to get depressed or else the whole ship would go down. Well, 
hell.
	I was back at my table. Three men had the next table and 
they had a little boy with them. Each table had a small tv 
set, only theirs was turned on LOUD. The kid had it on some 
sitcom and that was nice of the men to the kid look a his 
program. But he wasnt paying any attention to it, he wasnt 
listening, he was sitting there pushing around a rolled-up 
piece of paper. He bounced it against some cups, then he took 
it and tossed it into this cup and that. Some of the cups were 
filled with coffee. But the men just went on talking about the 
horses. My god, that tv was LOUD. I thought of saying 
something to the men, asking them to lower the tv a bit. But 
the men were black and theyd think I was racist. I left my 
table and walked out to the betting windows. I was unlucky, I 
got in a slow line. There was an old guy up front having 
trouble making his bets. He had his Form spread out across the 
window, along with his programm and he was very hesitant about 
what he wanted to do. He probably lived in an old folks home 
or and institution of some sort but he was out or a day at the 
races. Well, no law against that and no law against him being 
in a fog. But somehow it hurt. Jesus, I dont have to suffer 
this, I thought. I had memorized the back of his head, his 
ears, his clothing, the bent back. The horses were nearing the 
gate. Everybody was screaming at him. He didnt notice them. 
Then, painfully, we watched as he slowly reached for his 
wallet. Slow, slow motion. He opened it and peered into it. 
Then he poked his fingers in there. I dont even want to go 
on. He finally paid and the clerk slowly handed him back his 
money. Then he stood there looking at his money and his 
tickets, then he turned back to the clerk and said, No, I 
wanted the 6-4 exacta, not this... Somebody yelled out an 
obscenity. I walked off. The horses leaped out of the gate and 
I walked to the mens room to piss.
	When I came back the waiter had my bill ready. I paid, 
tipped 20% and thanked him.
	See you tomorrow, amigo, he said.
	Maybe, I said.
	Youll be here, he said.
	The other races ground on. I bet early on the 9th and 
left. I left ten minutes before post. I got to my car and 
moved out. At the end of parking on Century Boulevard by the 
signal there was an ambulance, a fire engine and two police 
cars. Two cars had hit head-on. There was glass everywhere, 
the cars were really mangled. Somebody had been in a hurry to 
get in and somebody had been in a hurry to get out. 
Horseplayers.
	I moved around the crash and took a left on Century.
	Just another day shot through the head and buried. It was 
Saturday afternoon in hell. I drove along with the others.


9/15/92										1:06 AM

	Talk about a writers block. I believe I was bitten by a 
spider. Three times. Noticed these 3 large red welts on my 
left arm the night of 9-08-92. Around 9 p.m. There was a 
slight pain to the touch. I decided to ignore it. But after 15 
minutes I showed the marks to Linda. She had been to an 
emergency room earlier in the day. Something had left a 
stinger in her back. Now it was after 9 p.m., everything was 
closed except the Emergency Ward of the local hospital. I had 
been there before: I had fallen into a hot fireplace while 
drunk. I had not fallen into the fire directly but had fallen 
upon the hot surface while only wearing my shorts. Now, it was 
this. These welts.
	I think Id feel like a fool going in there with just 
these welts. There are people in there bloodied from car 
crashes, knifings, shootings, attempted suicides, and all I 
have are 3 red welts.
	I dont want to wake up with a dead husband in the 
morning, Lidna said.
	I thought about it for 15 minutes, then said, All right, 
lets go in.

	It was quiet in there. The lady at the desk was on the 
telephone. She was on the telephone for some time. Then she 
was finished.
	Yes? she asked.
	I think Ive been bitten by something, I said. Maybe I 
should be looked at.
	I gave her my name. I was in the computer. Last visit: TB 
time.
	I was walked into a room. The nurse did the usual. Blood 
pressure. Temperature.
	The the doctor. He examined the welts.
	Looks like a spider, he said, they usually bite 3 
times.
	I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for some 
antibiotics and some Benadryl.
	We drove off to an all-night Sav-on to get the stuff.
	The 500 mg Duricef was to be taken one capsule every 12 
hours. The Benadryl one every 4 to 6 hours.
	I began. And this is the point. After a day or so I felt 
similar as I had to the time I had been taking antibiotics for 
TB. Only then, due to my weakened state, I was barely able to 
walk up and down the stairway, having to pull myself along by 
the banister. Now it was just the nauseous feeling, the 
dullness of mind. About the 3rd day I sat down in front of this 
computer to see if anything would come out of it. I only sat 
there. This must be, I thought, the way it feels when it 
finally leaves you. And there is nothing you can do. At the 
age of 72 it was always possible that it would leave me. The 
ability to write. It was a fear. And it was not about fame. Or 
about money. It was about me. I release of writing. The safety 
of writing. All that mattered was the next line. And if the 
next line wouldnt come, I was dead, even though, technically, 
I was living.
	I have been off the antibiotics now for 24 hours but I 
still feel dull, a bit ill. The writing here lacks spark and 
gamble. Too bad, kid.
	Now, tomorrow, I must see my regular doctor to find out if 
I need more antibiotics or what. The welts are still there, 
though smaller. Who knows what the hell?
	Oh yes, the nice lady at the receptionists desk, just as 
I was leaving, began talking about spider bites. Yes, there 
was this fellow in his twenties. He got bit by a spider, now 
hes paralyzed from the waist up.
	Is that so? I asked.
	Yes, she said, and there was another case. This 
fellow...
	Never mind, I told her, we have to leave.
	Well, she said, have a nice night.
	You too, I said.


11/6/82										12:08 AM

	I feel poisoned tonight, pissed-on, used, worn to the nub. 
Its not entirely old age but it might have something to do 
with it. I think that the crowd, that crowd. Humanity which 
has always been difficult for me, that all repeat performance 
for them. Theres no freshness in them. Not even the tiniest 
miracle. They just grind on and over me. If, one day, I could 
just see ONE person doing or saying something unusual it would 
help me get on with it. But the are stale, grimy. Theres no 
lift. Eyes, ears, legs, voices but... nothing. They congeal 
within themselves, kid themselves along, pretending to be 
alive.
	It was better when I was young. I was still looking. I 
prowled the streets of night looking, looking... mixing, 
fighting, searching... I found nothing. I never really found a 
friend. With women, there was hope with each new one but that 
was in the beginning. Even early on, I got it, I stopped 
looking for the Dream Girl, I just wanted one that wasnt a 
nightmare.
	With people, all I found were the living who were now dead 
 in books, in classical music. But that helped, for a while. 
But there were only so many lively and magical book, then in 
stopped. Classial musics was my stronghold. I heard most of it 
on the radio, still do. And I am ever surprised, even now, 
when I hear something strong and new and unheard before and it 
happens quite often. As I write this I am listening to 
something on the radio that I have never heard before. I feast 
on each note like a man starving for a new rush of blood and 
meaning and its there. I am totally astonished by the mass of 
great music, centuries and centuries of it. It must be that 
many great souls once lived. I cant explain it but it is my 
great luck in life to have this, to sense this, to feed upon 
and celebrate it. I never write anything without the radio on 
to classical music, it has always been a part of my work, to 
hear this music as I write. Perhaps, some day, somebody will 
explain to me why so much of the energy of the Miracle is 
contained in classical music? I doubt that this will ever be 
told to me. I will only be left to wonder. Why, why, why 
arent there more books with this power? Whats wrong with the 
writers? Why are there so few good one?
	Rock music does not do it for me. I went to rock concert, 
mainly for the sake of my wife, Linda. Sure, Im a good guy, 
huh? Huh? Anyhow, the tickets were free, courtesy of the rock 
musician who reads my books. We were to be in a special 
section with the big shots. A director, former actor, made a 
trip to pick us up in his sport wagon. Another actor was with 
him. These are talented people, in their way, and not bad 
human beings. We drove to the directors place, there was his 
lady friend, we saw their baby and then off we all went in a 
limo. Drinks, talk. The concert was to be at Dodger Stadium. 
We arrived late. The rock group was on, blasting, enormous 
sound. 25,000 people. There was a vibrancy there but it was 
short-lived. It was fairly simplistic. I suppose the lyrics 
were all right if you could understand them. They were 
probably speaking of Causes, Decencies, Love found and lost, 
etc. People need that  anti-establisment, anti-parent, anti-
something. But a successful millionaire groupe like that, no 
matter what they said, THEY WERE NOW ESTABLISHMENT. 
	Then, after a while, the leader said, This concert is 
dedicated to Linda and Charles Bukuwski! 25,000 people 
cheered as if they knew who we were. It is to laugh.
	The big shot movie starts milled about. I had met them 
before. I worriend about that. I worried about directors and 
actors coming to our place. I disliked Hollywood, the movies 
seldom ever worked for me. What was I doing with these people? 
Was I being sucked in? 72 years of fighting the good fight, 
then to be sucked away?
	The concert was almost over and we followed the director 
to the VIP bar. We were among the select. Wow!
	There were tables tables in there, a bar. And the famous. 
I made for the bark. Drinks were free. There was a huge black 
bartender. I ordered my drink and told him, After I drink 
this one, well go out back and duke it out.
	The bartender smiled.
	Bukowski!
	You know me?
	I used to read your Notes of a Dirty Old Man in the 
L.A. Free Press and Open City.
	Well, Ill be god-damned...
	We shook hands. The fight was off.
	Linda and I talked to various people, about what I dont 
know. I kept going back to the bar again and again for my 
vodka 7s. The bartender poured me tall ones. Id also loaded 
up in the limo on the way in. The night got easier for me, it 
was only a matter of drinking them down big, fast and often.
	When rock star came in I was fairly far gone but still 
there. He sat down and we talked but I dont know about what. 
Then came black-out time. Evidently we left. I only know what 
I heard later. The limo got us back but as I reached the steps 
of the house I fell and cracked my head on the bricks. We had 
just had the bricks put in. The right side of my head was 
bloody and I had hurt my right hand and my back.
	I found most of this in the morning when I rose to take a 
piss. There was the mirror. I looked like the old days after 
the barroom fights. Christ. I washed some of the blood away, 
fed our 9 cats and went back to bed. Linda wasnt feeling too 
well either. But she had seen her rock show.
	I knew I wouldnt be able to write for 3 or 4 days and 
that it would a couple of days before I got back to the 
racetrack.
	It was back to classical music for me. I was honored and 
all that. Its great that the rocks start read my work but 
Ive heard from men in jails and madhouses who do too. I cant 
help it who reads my work. Forget it.
	Its good sitting here tonight in this little room on the 
second floor listening on the radio, the old body, the old 
mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this.


2/21/93										12:33 AM

	Went to the track today in the rain and watched 7 
consensus favorites out of 9 win. There is no way I can make 
it when this occurs. I watched the hours get slugged in the 
head and looked at the people studying their tout sheets, 
newspapers and Racing Forms. Many of them left early, taking 
the escalators down and out. (Gunshot outside now as I write 
this, life back to normal.) After about 4 or 5 races I left 
the clubhouse and went own to the grandstand area. There was a 
difference. Fewer whites, of course, more poor, of course. 
Down there, I was a minority. I walked about and I could feel 
the desperation in the air. These were 2 dollar bettors. They 
didnt bet favorites. They bet the shots, the exactas, the 
daily doubles. They were looking for a lot of money of a 
little money and they were drowning. Drowning in the rain. It 
was grim there. I needed a new hobby.
	The track had changed. Forty years ago there had been some 
joy out there, even among the losers. The bars had been 
packed. This was a different world. There was no money to blow 
to the sky, no to-hell-with-it money, no well-be-back-
tomorrow money. This was the end of the world. Old clothing. 
Twisted and bitter faces. The rent money. The 5 dollars an 
hour money. The money of the unemployed, of the illegal 
immigrants. The money of the petty thieves, the burglars, the 
money of the disinherited. The air was dark. And the lines 
were long. They made the poor wait in long lines. The poor 
were used to long lines. And they stood in them to have their 
small dreams smashed.
	This was Hollywood Park, located in the black district, in 
the district of Central Americans and other minorities.
	I went back upstairs to the clubhouse, to the shorter 
lines. I got into line, bet 20 win on the second favorite.
	When ya gonna do it? the clerk asked me.
	Do what? I asked.
	Cash some tickets.
	Any day now, I told him.
	I turned and walked away. I could hear him say something 
else. Old bent white haired guy. He was having a bad day. Many 
of the mutuel clerks bet. I tried to go to a different clerk 
each time I bet, I didnt want to fraternize. The fucker was 
out of line. It was none of his business if I ever cashed a 
bet. The clerks rode with you when you were running hot. They 
would ask each other, Whatd he bet? But go cold on them, 
they got pissed. They should do their own thinking. Just 
because I was there every day didnt mean I was a professional 
gambler. I was a professional writer. Sometimes.
	I was walking along and I saw this kid rushing toward me. 
I knew what it was. He blocked my path.
	Pardon me, he said, are you Charles Bukowski?
	Charles Darwin, I said, then spepped around him.
	I didnt want to hear it, whatever he had to say.
	I watched the race and my horse came in second, beaten out 
by another favorite. On off or muddy tracks too many favorites 
win. I dont know the reason but it occurs. I got the hell out 
of the racetrack and drove on in.
	Got to the place, greeten Linda. Checked the mail.
	Rejection letter from the Oxford American. I checked my 
poems. Not bad, good but not exceptional. Just a losing day. 
But I was still alive. It was almost the year 2,000 and I was 
still alive, whatever it meant.
	We went out to eat at a Mexican place. Much talk about the 
fight that night. Chavez and Haugin before 130,000 in Mexico 
City. I didnt give Haugin a chance. He had guts but no punch, 
no movement and he was about 3 years past his prie. Chavez 
could name the round.
	That night it was the way it was. Chavez didnt even sit 
down between rounds. He was hardly breathing heavily. The 
whole thing was a clean, sheer, brutal event. The body shots 
Chavez landed made me wince. It was like hitting a man in the 
ribs with a sledgehammer. Chavez finally got bored with 
carrying his man and took him out.
	Well, hell, I said to my wife, we paid to see exactly 
what we thought we would see.
	The tv was off.
	Tomorrow the Japanese were coming by to interview me. One 
of my books was now in Japanese and another was on the way. 
What would I tell them? About the horses? Maybe they would 
just ask questions. They should. I was a writer, huh? How 
strange it was but everybody had to be something didnt they? 
Homeless, famous, gay, mad, whatever. If they ever again run 
in 7 more favorites on a 9 race card, Im going to start doing 
something else. Jogging. Or the museums. Or finger painting. 
Or chess. I mean, hell, thats just as stupid.


2/27/93										12:56 AM

	The captain is out and the sailors have taken over the 
ship.
	Why are there so few interesting people? Out of the 
millions, why arent there a few? Must we continue to live 
with this drab and ponderous species? Seems their only act is 
Violence. They are so good at that. They truly blossom. Shit 
flowers, stinking up our chance. Problem is, if I want the 
lights to go on,  if I want this computer repaired, if I want 
to flush the toilet, buy a new tire, get a tooth pulled or my 
gut cut open, I must continue to interact. I need the fuckers 
for the minute necessities, even if they, themselves appall 
me. And appall is a kind word.
	But they pound on my consciousness with their failure in 
vital areas. For instance, every day as I drive to the track I 
keep punching the radio to different stations looking for 
music, decent music. Its all bad, flat lifeless, tuneless, 
listless. Yet some of these compositions sell in millions and 
their creators consider themselves true Artists. Its 
horrible, horrible drivel entering the minds of you heads. 
They like it. Christ, hand them shit, they eat it up. Cant 
they discern? Cant they hear? Cant they feel the dilution, 
the staleness?
	I cant believe that there is nothing. I keep punching in 
new statios. Ive had my car less than a year yet the button I 
push has the black paint completely worn off. It is white, 
ivory-like, staring at me.
	Well, yes, there is classical music. I finally have to 
settle for that. But I know that is always there for me. I 
listen to that 3 or 4 hours a night. But I still keep 
searching for other music. Its just not there. It should be 
there. It disturbs me. Weve been cheated out of a whole other 
area. Think of all the people alive who have never heard 
decent music. No wonder their faces are falling off, no wonder 
they kill thoughtlessly, no wonder the heat is missing.
	Well, what can I do? Nothing.	
	The movies are just as bad. I will listen to or read the 
critics. A great movie, they will say. And I will go see said 
movie. And sit there feeling like a fucking fool, feeling 
robbed, tricked. I can guess each scene before it arrives. And 
the obvious motives of the characters, what drives them, what 
they yearn for, what is of importance to them is so juvenile 
and pathetic, so boringly gross. The love bits are galling, 
old hat, precious drivel.
	I believe that most people see too many movies. And 
certainly the critics. When they say that a movie is great, 
they mean its great in relation to other movies they have 
seen. Theyve lost their overview. They are clubbed by more 
and more new movies. They just dont know, they are lost in it 
all. They have forgotten what really stinks, which is almost 
everything they view.
	And lets not even talk about television.
	And as a writer... am I one? Oh well. As a writer I have 
trouble reading other writing. It just isnt there for me. To 
begin with, they dont know how to lay down a line, a 
paragraph. Just looking at the print from distance, it looks 
boring. And when you really get down there, its worse than 
boring. Theres no pace. Theres nothing startling or fresh. 
Theres no gamble, no fire, no juice. What are they doing? It 
looks like hard work. No wonder mostwriters say writing is 
painful to them. I can understand that.
	Sometimes with my writing, when it hasnt roared, I have 
attempted other things. I have pouren wine on the pages, I 
have held the pages to a match and burned holes in them. What 
are you DOING in there? I smell smoke!
	No, its all right, baby, itall right...
	Once my wastebasket caught fire and I rushed it out of my 
little balcony, poured beer over it.
	For my own writing, I like to watch the boxing matches, 
watch how the left jab is used, the overhand right, the left 
hook, the uppercut, the counter punch. I like to watch them 
dig in, come off the canvas. There is something to be learned, 
something to be applied to the art of writing, the way of 
writing. You have just one chance and then its gone. There 
are only pages left, you might as well make them smoke.
	Classical music, cigars, the computer make the writing 
dance, holler, laugh. The nightmare life helps too.
	Each day as I walk into that racetrack am blasting my 
hours to shit. But I still have the night. What do other 
writers do? Stand before the mirror and examine their ear 
lobes? And then write about them. Or their mothers. Or how to 
Save the World. Well, they can save it for me by not writing 
that dull stuff. That slack and withered drivel. Stop! Stop! 
Stop! I need something to read. Isnt there anything to read? 
I dont think so. If you find it, let me know. No dont. I 
know: you wrote it. Forget it. Go take a dump.
	I remember a long raging letter I got one day from a man 
who told me I had no right to say that I didnt like 
Shakespeare. Too many youth believe me and just not bother to 
read Shakespeare. I had no right to take this stance. On and 
on about that. I didnt answer him. But I will here.
	Screw you, buddy. And I dont like Tolstoy either!
