little incident last night, foreman saw me standing talking to another man. this is against the rules. he rushed up. we have little slips we carry that show the amount of work we have done. he rushed up and I jammed the slips into his belly.

I’m leaving, I told him.

what?

I’m sick.

huh?

I’m sick of working.

what do you mean?

my 8 hours are up.

I saw you standing there talking…

my 8 are up.

why didn’t you tell me?

add me up.

then the jackass runs to another minor wheel and says, I saw Bukowski standing there and talking to that man…

well, says the other guy, his 8 hours are up.

I walked past and out. I mean, it doesn’t mean anything except that these babies are all sucked out and I don’t like to talk to them or even look at them, especially near the end of the night. [* * *]

The book of poems announced here was ultimately published not by Mad Virgin Press but by Poetry X/Change, Glendale, California. It did not appear in print until 1968. The book of “mostly drawings” was never published.

[To Tom McNamara]

May 20, 1965

strike for freedom of time to have a look around. they have caught me. it’s a sad and silly story of doing-in but the main thing is they’ve got me. 8 years on the same job and just as broke as if I were not working. Of course, the first years were the slippery days when they had a hard time finding me; when I could sit and watch the smoke rise from my cigarette while men were killing each other. and men continue to kill each other and themselves and they’ve cut a lot of woodwork and a pile of soul from me. there are a hell of a lot of ways to die but I still have a finger on the ledge, I think.

something called THE MAD VIRGIN PRESS wants to do a book of my poems and I don’t know if it will be mimeo or what and I don’t care. they say ten percent, and I can always use a little beer money. I think I have a title—Poems Written Before Jumping Out of an 8 Story Window. I will try it on them and see what they say. Then Border Press is going to come out with a book of mine, mostly drawings interspersed with poems, but I haven’t done the thing yet, but will. I like to play with india ink and lots of white paper. I tried some oils one time but what a strain—like going for the 3rd piece of ass. so what I mean, here I am sagged and dying but still fumbling with poems and drawings, and it’s a way of going on—like the whiskey and the horses and sleep sleep sleep, if I can get it.