what am I talking about? mainly my extreme cleverness at staying out of the traps. so here I meet this woman. she is 42. I am 44. who needs to worry about children? responsibility? another good deal. by God, when Bukowski came along he must been in front of the line to get all those brains!

listen, Blaz, the day she told me she was pregnant, that moment, I do wish somebody could have photographed my face. it must have been a monument of disbelief, something say like a guy getting up in the morning and noticing that sometime while he slept somebody had clipped his balls off—I mean, that FIRST KNOWING, that FIRST LOOK, reaching down with the hand and finding nothing there. listen, kid, I have my balls, so far. even tho I wrote a poem about a guy who cut his off. I am just trying to give you the feeling, the look of it. 44 years of planned and deliberate cleverness. shot. bang. like that. over. I wish you could have had a photo of my face then because whenever you got the blues you could take this photo out and laugh for hours, you know.—anyhow, she’s a beautiful little girl, a miracle, and glad she’s here now, but jesus sweetheart, god or somebody pulled the switch on me, fast. well. think of all the young bodies I bypassed! arrrg! when bigger and better jackasses are born, Bukowski will still lead the parade. [* * *]

glad to hear Assholes will be a book. I dedicated the thing to Want-ling not on the assumption of a book but merely to dedicate. last I heard he was working in a carwash for $ 1.25 an hour. this is kind of rough on near-genius. I don’t mean that they should be spoon-fed and elevated a la Patchen, no matter what the misery. all men suffer, even those who don’t write poetry, and if we’re going to help Patchen with a bad back, we also gotta help Joe Brown with a bad back, or else this makes Patchen no good, you see? think you do. [* * *]