I am sure Marina will make me feel better tonight. we have a direct line going. everything is simple and clear and magic and even funny.—your daughter? on back of pic? the date? 1944? is this correct? how OLD ARE YOU, Abraham? [* * *] I have to go over and get Marina now; she looks almost exactly like the photo you enclosed, even has a hat like that. thanks the photo. it cheered me.

I don’t know if I am glad I left Germany or not. I really think I would be dying wherever I was at. my formula remains the same-keep the last coal glowing long as possible. no sense in tossing in. make them come to us. we will throw the scabs, the guts, the pebbles in their faces, whatever they use for faces.

so now in the old car, the night streets, myself gagging in the love of their tranquil yawn, my los angeles non-people. Marina how do you live in this city? [* * *]

[To Carl Weissner]

[January 28, 1967]
the next day following earlier
letter (1967)

hello Carl:

this quick one, follow up, trying to fight off Marina who won’t let me type long (competition), but I screwed up—the photo is evidently of you, and I called it your daughter—so now I’ve put a dent in your mulch—sorry—but why in hell do they dress little boys like little girls and then hand the photo to a guy with a hangover? the 1944 makes sense to me now. should I consider you wounded forever? don’t be. I wish I looked like my daughter. now she’s making a train. I hold a conversation with her as I type: “Are you making a train? ah, fine, hum hum. oh, did the train fall down?” Bukowski gone soft as poached eggs for ulcer patients. I always used whiskey for my stomach—I mean my ulcers—got rid of my stomach and my ulcers too.