The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps
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Charles Bukowski is one of America's best selling, best loved and most widely read poets. This new book of previously unpublished poems demonstrates that Bukowski never lost his gritty power, his ability to amuse, enlighten and inspire.
it’s all right small cheap rooms where you walk down the hall to the bathroom can seem romantic to a young writer. even the rejection slips are amusing because you are sure that you are one of the best. but while sitting there looking across the room at the portable typer waiting for you on the table you are really in a sense insane as you wait for one more night to arrive to sit and type Immortal Words—but now you just sit and think about it on your first
urban war the black car and the yellow truck crashed violently in the center of the intersection. the black car was stopped in its tracks and sat there honking while the yellow truck veered off from the collision and came directly toward me sideways with the driver slumped over the wheel. I should put my car in reverse, I thought, but my hand couldn’t find the gear shift quickly enough. then the yellow truck began to skip off to one side and I thought, it’s not going to
them. they are now starting to look like some critics I know. by this, please understand that I mean no offense to the spiders. out of place I always knew that there was something wrong with me. it got worse in Jr. High School. when I walked into a room all the students would begin talking at once it got very noisy and I would stand and stare at them and they would talk louder and louder until the teacher would bang on the desk: “ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT! THAT’S ENOUGH OF
the strangest thing after living with a woman for some years is that no matter what miraculous things you might accomplish they leave her unimpressed. for instance you could leap 60 feet straight up into the air and she would hardly notice. but let somebody else jump two inches off the ground and this same woman would applaud enthusiastically as if that was something really special. at times at this bitterest moment one realizes
people!” he repeated. “all right,” I said, “let’s forget it.” if I had wanted to be an actor I would have gone to Hollywood. the only necessary poetic act is the writing of the poem and all that follows is propaganda. the teachers the lectures the readings never can equal or replace what begins it all. 2 poets from San Francisco are down here now so far down here now KFAC here I sit again as the radio announcer says,