The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way. Charles Bukowski
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issue after issue. Malone lets his issues speak for themselves and remains invisible. You won’t find him beating on your door one night with a huge jug of cheap port wine saying, “Hey, I’m Marvin Malone, I printed your poem Catshit in a Bird’s Nest in my last issue. I think I’m gonna kick me some ass. Ya got anything for me to fuck around here?”
A vast grinding lonely hearts club of no-talents, that’s what the littles have evolved to, with the editors a worse breed than the writers. If you are a writer seriously interested in creating art instead of foolishness, then there are, at any moment, a few littles to submit to, where the editing is professional instead of personal. I haven’t read the mag that this piece is submitted to but I would suggest, along with Wormwood, as decent arenas: The New York Quarterly, Event, Second Aeon, Joe DiMaggio, Second Coming, The Little Magazine, and Hearse.
“You’re supposed to be a writer,” she says, “if you put all the energy into writing that you put into the racetrack you’d be great.” I think of something Wallace Stevens once said, “Success as a result of industry is a peasant’s ideal.” Or if he didn’t say that he said something close to that. The writing arrives when it wants to. There is nothing you can do about it. You can’t squeeze more writing out of the living than is there. Any attempt to do so creates a panic in the soul, diffuses and jars the line. There are stories that Hemingway would get up early in the morning and have all his work done at noon, but though I never met him personally I feel as if Hemingway were an alcoholic who wanted to get his work out of the way so he could get drunk.
What I have seen evolve in the littles with most new and fresh talent is an interesting first splash. I think, ah, here’s finally one. Maybe we have something now. But the same mechanism begins over and over again. The fresh new talent, having splashed, begins to appear everywhere. He sleeps and bathes with the goddamned typewriter and it’s running all the time. His name is in every mimeo from Maine to Mexico and the work grows weaker and weaker and weaker and continues to appear. Somebody gets a book out for him (or her) and then they are reading at your local university. They read the 6 or 7 good early poems and all the bad ones. Then you have another little magazine “name.” But what has happened is that instead of trying to create the poem they try for as many little mag appearances in as many little magazines as possible. It becomes a contest of publication rather than creation. This diffusion of talent usually occurs among writers in their twenties who don’t have enough experience, who don’t have enough meat to pick off the bone. You can’t write without living and writing all the time is not living. Nor does drinking create a writer or brawling create a writer, and although I’ve done plenty of both, it’s merely a fallacy and a sick romanticism to assume that these actions will make a better writer of one. Of course, there are times when you have to fight and times when you have to drink, but these times are really anti-creative and there’s nothing you can do about them.
Writing, finally, even becomes work especially if you are trying to pay the rent and child support with it. But it is the finest work and the only work, and it’s a work that boosts your ability to live and your ability to live pays you back with your ability to create. One feeds the other; it is all very magic. I quit a very dull job at the age of 50 (twas said I had security for life, ah!) and I sat down in front of the typewriter. There’s no better way. There are moments of total flaming hell when you feel as if you’re going mad; there are moments, days, weeks of no word, no sound, as if it had all vanished. Then it arrives and you sit smoking, pounding, pounding, it rolls and roars. You can get up at noon, you can work until 3 a.m. Some people will bother you. They will not understand what you are trying to do. They will knock on your door and sit in a chair and eat up your hours while giving you nothing. When too many nothing people arrive and keep arriving you must be cruel to them for they are being cruel to you. You must run their asses out on the street. There are some people who pay their way, they bring their own energy and their own light but most of the others are useless both to you and to themselves. It is not being humane to tolerate the dead, it only increases their deadness and they always leave plenty of it with you after they are gone.
And then, of course, there are the ladies. The ladies would rather go to bed with a poet than anything, even a German police dog, though I knew one lady who took very much delight in claiming she had fucked one President Kennedy. I had no way of knowing. So, if you’re a good poet, I’d suggest you learn to be a good lover too, this is a creative act in itself, being a good lover, so learn how, learn how to do it very well because if you’re a good poet you’re going to get many opportunities, and though it’s not like being a rock star, it will come along, so don’t waste it like rock stars waste it by going at it rote and half-assed. Let the ladies know that you are really there. Then, of course, they will keep buying your books.
And let this be enough advice for a little while. Oh yes, I won $180 opening day, dropped $80 yesterday, so today is the day that counts. It’s ten minutes to eleven. First post 2 p.m. I must start lining up my horse genes. There was a guy out there yesterday with a heart machine attached to himself and he was sitting in a wheelchair. He was making bets. Put him in a rest home and he’ll be dead overnight. Saw another guy out there, blind. He must have had a better day than I did yesterday. I’ve got to phone Quagliano and tell him I’ve finished this article. Now there’s a very strange son of a bitch. I don’t know how he makes it and he won’t tell me. I see him at the boxing matches sitting there with a beer and looking very relaxed. I wonder what he’s got going. He’s got me worried. . . .
Small Press Review, Vol. 4, no. 4, 1973
TALES
A Dollar for Carl Larsen
dedicated to Carl Larsen
owed to Carl Larsen
paid to Carl Larsen
. . . it was a lazy day and a lousy day to work, and it seemed that even spiders hadn’t thrown out their webs. And when I got to the railroad yards I found out that Henderson was the new foreman.
The old Mexican, Al or Abe or somebody had retired or died or gone insane. The boys were matching pennies down by the barn when Henderson called me over.
“Gaines,” he said, “Gaines, I understand you’re somewhat of a playboy. Well, that’s all right. I don’t mind a little horseplay now and then, but we’ll get our work done first and then we’ll play.”
“Just like recess at school, eh, coach?”
Henderson put his face real close to mine. I put mine real close to his.
“Or haven’t you been to school, Hendy?”
I could look right down into his red mouth and his frog jaws as he spoke: “I can tie the can to you, boy.”
“Proving what?” I asked.
“Proving you are out of position.”
Which was a pretty good answer, and a pretty good criticism: I was always out of position.
I took a nickel out of my pocket and flipped it to the cement where the boys were lagging to the line. They stood back stunned, looking from the nickel to me. I turned and walked the hell out of there.
II
I lay up in my room and studied the Racing Form for a couple of hours and knocked off half a bottle of leftover wine. Then I got into my ’38 Ford and headed for the track. . . .
I wrote the morning line down on my program and walked over to the bar where I noticed a big blonde about 35, and alone—well, about as alone as a big babe like that can get in amongst 8,000 men. She was trying her damnedest to burst and pop out of her clothes, and you stood there watching her, wondering which part would pop out first. It was sheer madness, and every time she moved you could feel the electricity running up the steel girders. And perched on top of all this madness was a face that really had some type of royalty in it. I mean, there was a kind of stateliness, like she’d lived