i wanna make it a heavyweight fight

 how to be a great writer, charles bukowski

you've got to fuck a great many women

beautiful women

and write a few decent love poems.

and don't worry about age

and/or freshly arrived talents.

just drink more beer

more and more beer

and attend the racetrack at least once a week

and win if possible.

learning to win is hard-

any slob can be a loser.

and don't forget your Brahms

and your Bach and your beer

don't overexercise.

sleep until noon.

avoid credit cards

or paying for anything on time.

remember that there isn't a piece of ass 

in this world worth more than $50

(in 1977).

and if you have the ability to love

love yourself first

but always be aware of the possibility of 

total defeat

whether the reason for that defeat 

seems right or wrong-

an early taste of death is not necessarily 

a bad thing

stay out of churches and bars and museums,

and like the spider 

be patient-

time is everybody's cross,

plus

exile 

defeat

 treachery

all that dross.

stay with the beer.

beer is continuous blood.

a continuous lover.

get a large  typewriter

and as the footsteps go up and down

outside your window

hit that thing

hit it hard

make it a heavyweight fight

make it the bull when he first charges in

and remember the old dogs

who fought so well:

Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.

if you don't think they didn't go crazy

in tiny rooms

just like you're doing now

without women

without food

without hope

then you're not ready.

drink more beer.

there's time.

and if there's not

that's all right too.

this poem cracks me up and makes my heart squeeze tight. it's daunting and hopeful at the same time. it makes me want to live in loud fits and bursts and then tender oozing whimpers-back and forth between those two states, relentlessly. this poem makes me worry about time even more than i already do. i definitely don't think that not having enough time is "all right too". i've got too much to fit in this life, too much to touch and feel and taste...too much writing to do. writing needs so much time...i just want slow motion time and a quiet room with a huge desk beneath a bright window. but i want my fingers fast and breathless, tirelessly wanting to "hit that thing, hit it hard," to "make it a heavyweight fight"