[* * *] by the way, somebody’s stealing some of our fire—or borrowing it anyway. Frances showed me a copy of Xenia 2. she has a couple of poems in there and not bad ones at that. but what I mean is, baby, there are articles—attacks on Olson & Poetry Chicago, so forth. the problem being, with them, that the poetry they print does not attack the problem or rattle or burn or jump or exist. in other words, they know what’s wrong but they can’t dance. which still gives the edge to Earth—she dance, she know what’s wrong & she know how. ya. [* * *]

if the universities ever read Earth they will burn their doors and books and walls. god damn, something in red just walked by. my pecker jumped like a worm in a sparrow’s mouth. when they gonna let this old man rest? [* * *]

[To Steven Richmond]

[ca. June 1966]

[* * *] I composed this magazine in 20 minutes—from memory. I hope to hell you don’t think I am serious! [* * *]

THE TOILET PAPER REVIEW

our motto is: we don’t give a shit

edited by

Charles Bukowksi

pirc

priceless

editorial

the only ones who can write is us. nobody else can write but us. we are the only ones who can write. I don’t understand why other people can’t write. send money. send your wife—for one night. we do this for love.

we hate war. we like guitars. we paint. we swim. we know everything. the world is evil. we are not evil. send money. we send love. we send love everywhere. send your girlfriend—for 2 nights. don’t pay your income tax. blow up the troop trains. smoke pot. sell pot. write your president. write your gov. write your mother for money and send it to us. don’t send your mother—at all. literature and the world are in bad shape. we are dying. legalize rape.

no payment for poetry.

yours, love,

Charles Bukowski

poem

o it says

vamma

?????

????//////

crutch

hold me

Hold me

o eternal motor

super heart

supermarket heart

sputtering

the night becomes me

and I die

—John Vance, Glendale

poem

it is only

me.

—Curly Eisten, Pasadena

poem

war is terrible. people get killed in wars.

I once killed a man. I will never kill

another man. bow to the sun. suck your own

cock. the stars come down like

RAIN. love, love

LOVE.

—Joe Esterlund, Cleveland

poem

o dear, the green of me, the green of me

is dying in the fountains

the green sun stops my breathing

mother asks me to get married

I can’t teeth the worl

or I am afraid

o my green my green is

going

in fountains

and the stars are

grey.

—Mary Jane Wicks, New York City