hope to enclose last column of Dirty Old Man. I can’t enclose them all. Open City has moved over to a fairly respectable boulevard, near City College, and I hadn’t been over until today, and some of my fears were true. I mean as soon as the publications begin moving up a little, they begin to operate like he dear madam’s exclusive fly suckoff parlor, extra phone, new hustlers and con-men, take-over chaps, and the volunteers get younger with tight dressers and cool pussies of snobbery. it wasn’t too bad today but I did detect a bit of it, and I foretold to a buddy of mine who used to write for them but no more—“as soon as we help them make it they will have no use for us. bad writers will take over, the pages will be ¾ ads, and the rest will be unreadable.” I’m not saying they’ve gotten to that yet but swinging in the door here was this receptionist and she gave me this look like, “if you’re the trashman, he’s already been here,” but I busted right past her cool cunt and hollered “Bryan Bryan where ya at?” I saw him nailing a board to the wall and he said, “Hey, Bukowski!” and the cool cunt musta read the paper because when she heard “Bukowski” she hiked her skirt 4 inches, spread her legs and her pussy started to hiss Yankee Doodle Dandy thru her bargain basement panties. but maybe they won’t get up too high down there, I hope not, anyhow, one column a week is almost too much for a dying man and maybe I am looking for an excuse to quit. quitter, quitter; dirty dying old man. all right, all right. [* * *]

sure, man, run some of my letters, would like to see, for whole thing becoming covered with a kind of moss and I feel dead already & would like to see that I did gabble about in my palmier days—when I jacked off with both hands, crosshand stroke, underhand and back up around the ass. would really like to see it; would revive some of my mimes. right now, as far as the writing goes it goes slowly. I wait on myself, feeling badly, feeling the Notre Dame worms crawling in my bellyhairs, I still wait, wait for the poem to come out-butter and tacks and a lady with a limp and beautiful knees going by my window. my window my window my window ah my window. [* * *]

[To Jon and Louise Webb]

[December 27, 1967]