[* * *] I do want to get back to doing some painting with something or other—some kind of color on paper—there has been a long gap there. I jump from painting to poetry to prose, back and forth and in between with all three—my wives, my whores. speaking of which, the mother of my child is taking said child (aged 4) to New York City to live and it’s going to make a hell of a cut into my feelings—the little girl and I vibe perfectly, but with the mother, it’s something else, and I can’t raise the child, don’t know how, so there it is—stuck again with a sad and heavy smash of pain, but the game works that way—everybody gets it, you, me, everybody; we’ve just got to piece together and carry on with our bit of the play until the rotten stinking curtain is rung down. [* * *]

This letter announces the short-lived magazine, Laugh Literary and Man the Humping Guns, that Bukowski co-edited with Neeli Cherry. “We didn’t get very good submissions,” Bukowski recalls, “so we wrote most of the stuff ourselves, inventing the names of writers.”

[To Carl Weissner]

April 23, 1969

you SENT the letters, baby, god bless your majestic koool spirit behind those shades!!!! I already hit the univ. for sum on manus. paintings books, other shit, but this is more money in the bank and since they are REALLY FUCKING with me on the rotten JOB—poor attendance, same old thing—this will help keep me alive, and also Marina, and if the breaks keep coming I’ll simply sit here over the typer and pour out the bullshit. I can write ENDLESSLY if I wish—and forgive me—but it all comes out pretty good. so, you’se a good Hun, babe. all my thanks. future letters yours—if they are worth a damn or not—I will not HIT you for letters again! so, you are great after all! I love your guts!

ho, and I am being a bit shitty in my way—I mean those who did not return letters upon my deathbed request—I was damn sick at the time—I no longer correspond with. so, I am a shit, you see.