Sunday, December 7, 2008

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,
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"

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