Screams From the Balcony Read Online Free PDF Page B

you’ve got to give me credit for putting it down anyhow because it’s what to know what to leave out that makes me different from the garage mechanic, if we are too much different. There is another story I have written—about a man who murders a blanket. Sent it to Evergreen , 6 months now, no response. Wrote stamped, self-add. thing. No response. I don’t keep carbons. I suppose I’ll see it in print some day under the name of Francios Marcios or Francis Francis or F. Villon. I keep getting reamed this way. But it is good for me. It reminds me that the world is pretty shitty. and this keeps me deftly abdulah and stasher of cannons. Anyhow, on “WW 2,” change and shift lines at your will…to fit page or to help readability;—although I personally garbled it a little, voices and ideas running together—to throw nails.
    I’ll send you more poems since you ask for them, but haven’t written any, and they don’t come back. I don’t mean they are accepted; I mean the swine simply do not return them; they sit on them like pillows, friend. aye.
    This is garbage talk.
    I have come through a green and red war these last 2 month. My side lost but I am still more alive than ever, in a sense. We have to pass through these things, again, again—arguing with a knife blade, a bottle, weeping like a frigging cunt in menopause, afraid to step out a door…afraid of birds, fleas, mice…encircled by a clock, a typewriter, a half-open closet door full of ghouls, killers, horrors like sea-bottoms. And then it ends. You are calm again. As calm as…a garage mechanic. I think of a D. H. Lawrence title: Look We Have Come Through .
    Anyhow, I’ll try you with some poems, although I don’t know if they can be like the Mica things. They will just have to be what they are…If you read somewhere that I cursed editors and other critters, you prob. read correctly. I deal pretty much alone and don’t care for ties. Tits, yes. Ties, no. I never wear ties. Creation and flow are the factors. Survival is not too important to me, either in any sense of immortality or in any sense of today—paying the rent, eating a sandwich, dreaming of a good fuck etc. etc. Although I get pretty scared sometimes when the world tries to kill me. Not the death-part, for as Socrates explained, this cannot be too bad. It is the getting there. The eyes. The flies. the ties. rubber tires. dead fish. fat landladies. buttons falling off shirt. dirty laundry. garage mechanics….
    savannah and eggplant
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    The Webbs were preparing the third issue of their magazine , The Outsider, which would be devoted mainly to Bukowski, whom Webb proclaimed recipient of a special award as “Outsider of the Year.” The issue would include tributes to Bukowski as well as photographs of him and poems and letters by him. It was to be followed by the publication of a “Loujon Press Award Book” collecting Bukowski’s poetry .
     
     
    [To Jon Webb]
    September 28, [1962]
     
    [* * *] I have been doing some thinking. I would like to write you another letter of acceptance re the OUTSIDER OF YEAR 62 thing, and I will anyhow, and it should be arriving in a day or 2 [* * *]
    As per writing more letters, as you know, this can’t be done just like that any more than a poem can; in fact, a letter is tougher because the letter mood seems to fall less upon me than the poem thing. Yet I think the letter is an important form. You can touch about everything as you run around. It lets you out of the straightjacket of pure Art, and you’ve got to get out once in a while. Of course, I don’t restrict myself as much in the poem as most do, but I have made this my business, this freedom with the word and idea, because…to be perfectly corny…I know I’ll only be around once and I want to make it easy on myself. [* * *]
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    [To Jon Webb]
    [ca. October 1, 1962]
     
    [* * *] Sherman was up yesterday to borrow 5 bucks. Said it was raining and his windshield wiper wasn’t working. I