[To Carl Weissner]

[August 1, 1969]

los angeles, calif. it’s Friday, I don’t have a clown’s calendar, but I think it’s August First, 1969, HOT HOT, and good old cheap Sears Roebuck fan turned on my ass; well, not exactly, I sit in my shorts, aging, drinking beer, the windows open, and the look at me, 6 p.m., coming in from their little jobs…they have been drowned and shitted upon. well, they belong to my club…

hello carl:

good to hear; I’d though maybe the literary thumpers and back-scratchers had gotten to you and told you I was a pile of dog turds. but you are the quiet type; it didn’t fit in my mind. I remember you behind those dark shades, just smiling evenly, that slight smile there all along. I read pretty good and I don’t believe in poking into souls, but I thought, “if Carl has turned, it is very strange. because usually is the constant talkers, the OPEN-HEARTS, that will leap from boat to boat when the waters seem to change: so good to hear—it keeps my score at 100 percent. [* * *] I am afraid that my time with the female is done, and there isn’t any sadness. I’ve had enough sex experiences to write 400 more stories about sex experiences. like The New York Review of Sex sent me a 25 buck check about the time I stuck my head down there and saw the STRANGEST panties I ever did see…plus other things. they want to see more. well, I am full of bullshit, and years. and as the little money comes in from the writing, here and there, I simply give myself more leisure time, drink more, lay around, stare at the ceiling, walk over to the typer when it calls. my boss says, “Bukowski, where have you been?” me, sitting there with a hangover and a new idea for a story. “fuck it,” I tell him. “I don’t have any excuses. fire me!” he just shakes his head and walks away. he thinks that I am crazy. am I crazy, Carl?

just uncapped another bottle of beer with my short top. my landlord gives me TWO garbage cans while the others get one. the beerbottles. I am the true Hun, Carl. but even if I were mostly Polack, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t know how it works.