This disc features an hour-long reading from the City Lights Poets Theater, San Francisco in 1973. The audience is lively, but the old trouper gives as good as he gets as he bashes out old chestnuts like Death Of An Idiot, The Sex Fiends, etc. As a treat the cover charge also includes a chaser in the form of Bukowskis two tracks from the ultra-rare 1972 Cold Turkey Press sampler LP.
Henry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Like your favorite uncle telling you stories when no one else is around! CB has an amazing body of work; I have always found his raw and truthful approach to writing. He has definitely become an even more interesting writer to me as I have gotten older. No one I have ever read meshes alienation and intimacy in a more original way.
My mom told me four words: Decide to be happy. In my mind I replied with one word. Not a really kind one but a kinder one than Bullshit. Crap. It's not always easy to do but I decided to do it with Charles Bukowski. I swear I've never known anyone who spoke of such immorality and baseness and this man is the basest I'll probably - definitely if you think about it differently in terms of his finality -never know but he makes things beautiful. Most times reading his work feels like being audience to a train wreck but it's food to the soul. No, salve... salve to the soul. Bukowski is NOT for everyone. I don't know what it is but this man's words make everything new again and all at once I'm moving from contradiction to contradiction; laughing like a maniac, cringing at the utter jibberish being spelled out, nodding concurrently in a moment of depth and feeling like I'm ready to take on the world. Or maybe just another of his poem collections for now. I think it's right to say Bukowski did it again. And some of my favorites:
- The Death of An Idiot
- The Best Love Poem I Can Write at the Moment
- Something for The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, and You...
I like the cadence of Bukowski's voice, but the crowd in the live recording was distracting and the author got a little drunk. Highlights: "Death", "Earthquake", "Shoelace", "Something For the Touts, the Nuns, the Grocery Clerks & You". I might try to read his poetry out loud myself since it's possible I'll like it more.
that as the yellow shade rips as the cat leaps wild-eyed as the old bartender leans on the wood as the hummingbird sleeps
you know and I know and thee know
as the tanks practice on false battlefields as your tires work the freeway as the midget drunk on cheap bourbon cries alone at night as the bulls are carefully bred for the matadors as the grass watches you and the trees watch you as the sea holds creatures vast and true
you know and I know and thee know
the sadness and the glory of two slippers under a bed the ballet of your heart dancing with your blood young girls of love who will someday hate their mirrors overtime in hell lunch with sick salad
you know and I know and thee know
the end as we know it now it seems such a lousy trick after the lousy agony but
you know and I know and thee know
the joy that sometimes comes along out of nowhere rising like a falcon moon across the impossibility
you know and I know and thee know
the cross-eyed craziness of total elation we know we finally have not been cheated
you know and I know and thee know
as we look at our hands our feet our lives our way the sleeping hummingbird the murdered dead of armies the sun that eats you as you face it