On Drinking
Page 15
and it didn’t even break
as a heavy drinker I often lost my
money or had it
stolen
so it got so when I became heavily
intoxicated I’d get to hiding my
money.
and I was very inventive.
the next day I never remembered
where I had hidden
it.
sometimes it took me hours to
find it.
sometimes days,
sometimes I never found it.
I won’t belabor you with the many
strange places I hid my money
except for this one
time.
it was a goodly sum and it was
gone.
and after some days of searching
my apartment
I just gave up.
then one day I was shaving and I
noticed that my face seemed a bit
more out of contour than
usual.
I looked at the mirror and noticed
a bump pushing right out at the
center.
I got a screwdriver, undid the
screws and lifted the mirror
off.
the money fell to the floor.
drunk, I had unscrewed the
whole mirror, placed the
money behind it and screwed
it back on.
I felt pretty proud about that
one.
and more proud that I had
found it.
of course, that called for a
celebration.
I didn’t even finish
shaving.
I went out and bought myself
a good fifth of
whiskey.
why not?
it felt like free
money.
tonight
so many of my brain cells eaten away by
alcohol
I sit here drinking now
all of my drinking partners dead,
I scratch my belly and dream of the
albatross.
I drink alone now.
I drink with myself and to myself.
I drink to my life and to my death.
my thirst is still not satisfied.
I light another cigarette, turn the
bottle slowly, admire
it.
a fine companion.
years like this.
but what else could I have done
and done so well?
I have drunk more than the first
one hundred men you will pass
on the street
or see in the madhouse.
I scratch my belly and dream of the
albatross.
I have joined the great drunks of
the centuries.
I have been selected.
I stop now, lift the bottle, swallow a
mighty mouthful.
impossible for me to think that
some have actually stopped to
become sober
citizens.
it saddens me.
they are dry, dull, safe.
I scratch my belly and dream of the
albatross.
this room is full with me and I am
full.
I drink this one to all of you.
and to me.
it is past midnight now and a lone
dog howls in the
night.
and I am as young as the fire that
burns
now.
[To John Martin]
October 20, 1992
Hello John:
Just two poems tonight but I think they do it.
Bush looks dried out of the game. And the billionaire guy talks a game he can’t back. Clinton appears the best of the lot.
And so to bed. Sober tonight. I think I write as well sober as drunk. Took me a long time to find that out.
11/6/92 12:08 AM
I feel poisoned tonight, pissed-on, used, worn to the nub. It’s 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 crowd is finally winning. I think the big problem is that it’s all a repeat performance for them. There’s 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 they are stale, grimy. There’s 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. But the total scene, the nothingness, hadn’t quite taken hold. 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 wasn’t 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 books, then it stopped. Classical music 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 it’s 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 can’t 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 aren’t there more books with this power? What’s wrong with the writers? Why are there so few good ones?
Rock music does not do it for me. I went to a rock concert, mainly for the sake of my wife, Linda. Sure, I’m 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 director’s 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-establishment, anti-parent, anti-something. But a successful millionaire group 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 Bukowski!” 25,000 people cheered as if they knew who we were. It is to laugh.
The big shot movie stars milled about. I had met them before. I worried 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 in there, a bar. And the famous. I made for the bar. Drinks were free. There was a huge black bartender. I ordered my drink and told him, “After I drink this one, we’ll go out back and duke it out.”
The b
artender 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, I’ll be god-damned . . .”
We shook hands. The fight was off.
Linda and I talked to various people, about what I don’t know. I kept going back to the bar again and again for my vodka 7’s. The bartender poured me tall ones. I’d 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 the rock star came in I was fairly far gone but still there. He sat down and we talked but I don’t know about what. Then came blackout 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 out 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 wasn’t feeling too well either. But she had seen her rock show.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to write for 3 or 4 days and that it would be 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. It’s great that the rock stars read my work but I’ve heard from men in jails and madhouses who do too. I can’t help it who reads my work. Forget it.
It’s good sitting here tonight in this little room on the second floor listening to the radio, the old body, the old mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this.
wine pulse
this is poem #25 telling about how it’s 2 A.M. and I’m still at the
machine drinking and listening to the radio and smoking this
cigar.
hell, I don’t know, sometimes I feel like Van Gogh or Faulkner or
one of those—say Stravinsky; I just keep drinking the wine and
smoking, and there’s nothing more magic or gentle than this, that’s
why I tend to talk about it, I want to keep the luck going . . .
some critics say I write the same thing over and over.
well, sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but when I do the
reason is that it feels so good, it’s like I’m making love to
myself, but not really—it’s to this machine, 2 A.M., the wine . . .
if you knew what I had here you would forgive me
because you and I know how temporary any graciousness is, and so
I play and brag and repeat:
it’s 2 A.M.
and I am
Chopin
Celine
Chinaski
settling for everything:
one sweep of cigar smoke
another glass of wine
and the beautiful young girls
the criminals and the killers
the lonely mad
the factory workers,
this machine here,
the radio playing,
repeat
repeat
repeat
until what will happen to you
happens to me.
Sources
“ants crawl my drunken arms.” Literary Artpress 2.2, Spring 1961; collected in The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills, 1969.
“What bothers me is when . . .” Excerpt from a March 25, 1961, letter to Jon and Louise Webb; collected in On Writing, 2015.
“Born Andernach, Germany . . .” Excerpt from a January 14, 1963, letter to William Corrington; collected in Screams from the Balcony, 1993.
“I just got to thinking . . .” Excerpt from an October 1963 letter to William Corrington; previously unpublished.
“I am getting a little drunk . . .” Excerpt from a March 1, 1964, letter to Jon and Louise Webb; collected in Screams . . .
“beerbottle.” The Wormwood Review 14, August 1964; collected in Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, 1974.
“brewed and filled by.” (c. 1964); collected in At Terror Street and Agony Way, 1968.
“Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beasts [#4].” (Early 1965); collected in South of No North, 1973.
“I wrote Henry Miller the other day . . .” Excerpt from an August 24, 1965, letter to Douglas Blazek; collected in Screams . . .
“I keep drinking beer and scotch . . .” Excerpt from a 1965 letter to William Wantling; collected in Screams . . .
“Buffalo Bill.” The Wormwood Review 24, March 1966; collected in The Roominghouse Madrigals, 1988.
“Notes of a Dirty Old Man.” Open City 23, October 4, 1967; collected in Notes of a Dirty Old Man, 1969.
“The Great Zen Wedding.” (September 1969); collected in Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness, 1972.
“In bed I had something . . .” (February 1970); excerpt from Post Office, 1971.
“short non-moon shots to nowhere [#16].” Jeopardy 6, March 1970; collected as “millionaires” in Mockingbird Wish Me Luck, 1972.
“nobody understands an alcoholic . . .” Excerpt from a December 1, 1970, letter to Lafayette Young; collected in Living on Luck, 1995.
“drinking’s good for a guy your age . . .” Excerpt from a March 1, 1971, letter to Steve Richmond; previously unpublished.
“I’m on the wagon . . .” Excerpt from a March 22, 1971, letter to John Bennett; previously unpublished.
“on the wagon.” March 31, 1971, manuscript; previously uncollected.
“drinking.” April 6, 1971, manuscript; previously uncollected.
“the angels of Sunday.” Mano-Mano 2, July 1971; previously uncollected.
“Charles Bukowski Answers 10 Easy Questions,” Throb 2, Summer–Fall 1971.
“drunk ol’ Bukowski drunk.” 1971 manuscript; collected in Mockingbird . . .
“Notes on the Life of an Aged Poet,” January 24, 1972, manuscript; collected in Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook, 2009.
“my landlady and my landlord.” Early 1972 manuscript; collected in Mockingbird . . .
“The Blinds.” 1972 manuscript; later reworked and incorporated into Factotum, 1975.
“Notes of a Dirty Old Man.” Los Angeles Free Press 428, October 2, 1972; collected as “This Is What Killed Dylan Thomas” in South of No North.
“another poem about a drunk and then I’ll let you go.” Los Angeles Free Press 456, April 13, 1973; collected in The People Look Like Flowers at Last, 2007. A longer version of this poem, titled “wax job,” was previously collected in Burning . . .
“in the name of love and art.” Second Coming 2.1/2, Summer 1973; previously uncollected.
“the drunk tank judge.” June 14, 1973, manuscript; collected in Play the Piano Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit, 1979.
“some people never go crazy.” Two Charlies 3, 1973; collected as “some people” in Burning . . .
“Notes of a Dirty Old Man.” Los Angeles Free Press 465, June 15, 1973; collected in More Notes of a Dirty Old Man, 2011.
“Confessions of a Badass Poet,” Berkeley Barb 454, April 26, 1974.
“some picnic.” Wormwood Review 55, 1974; collected in Love Is a Dog from Hell, 1977.
“18,000 to one.” November 25, 1974 manuscript (second draft); collected as “38,000 to one” in What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire, 1999.
“Paying for Horses: An Interview with Charles Bukowski,” London Magazine 14.5, December 1974/January 1975.
“I awakened much later . . .” Excerpts from Factotum, 1975. The first excerpt is based on a June 30, 1972, “Notes of a Dirty Old Man” column published in the Los Angeles Free Press.
“ah, shit.” January 25, 1976, manuscript; collected as “ah . . .” in Love Is a Dog . . .
“who in the hell is Tom Jones?” June 4, 1975, manuscript; collected in Love Is a Dog . . .
“beer.” June 5, 1976, manuscript; collected in Love Is a Dog . . .
“shit time.” Love Is a Dog . . .
“Buk: The Pock-Marked Poetry of Charles Bukowski. Notes of a Dirty Old Mankind,” Rolling Stone 215, June 17, 1976.
“Charles Bukowski. Dialog with a Dirty Old Man,” Hustler 3.6, December 1976.
“smashed.” November 2, 1977, manuscript; previously uncollected.
“the image.” November 17, 1977, manuscript (second draft); collected in What Matters Most . . .
“I suppose I drink too much white wine . . .” Excerpt from a March 5, 1978, letter to Uncle Heinrich; previously unpublished.
“One afternoon I was coming from the liquor store . . .” Excerpts from Women, 1978.
“fat head poem.” June 29, 1978, manuscript; collected in Shakespeare Never Did This, 1995.
“On Friday night I was to appear . . .” Excerpts from Shakespeare . . .
“the drunk with the little legs.” September 26, 1979, manuscript; collected as “Toulouse” in Open All Night.
“Hemingway.” June 28, 1979, manuscript (first draft); previously uncollected. A very similar poem, titled “Hemingway, drunk before noon,” written in 1985, was collected as “drunk before noon” in The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps, 2001.
“Mozart wrote his first opera before the age of fourteen.” Harbor Review, Spring 1980; collected as “night sweats” in Open All Night.
“on the hustle.” March 10, 1980, manuscript; collected in Dangling in Tournefortia, 1981.
“night school.” The Wormwood Review 81/82, 1981; collected in Dangling . . .
“fooling Marie.” January 17, 1982, manuscripts; collected as “fooling Marie (the poem)” in Come On In, 2006.
“I did a lot of time in bars . . .” Excerpt from a March 1, 1982, letter to Jack Stevenson; previously unpublished.
“Let an old man give you some advice . . .” Excerpt from a May 9, 1982, letter to Gerald Locklin; collected in Reach for the Sun, 1999.
“One day, just like in grammar school . . .” Excerpts from Ham on Rye, 1982.