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Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994), was a Los Angeles poet and novelist.
my father believed in work. he was proud to have a job. sometimes he didn’t have a job and then he was very ashamed. he’d be so ashamed that he’d leave the house in the morning and then come back in the evening so the neighbors wouldn’t know.
me, I liked the man next door: he just sat in a chair in his back yard and threw darts at some circles he had painted on the side of his garage. in Los Angeles in 1930 he had a wisdom that Goethe, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Freud, Jaspers, Heidegger and Toynbee would find hard to deny.









Comments
My father the bum – from “What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire”
I put this in the description as I think of it as a good representation of Bukowski.
Doesn’t the internet provide us with places to throw darts? You better fucking believe it does.
of corse he is the greatest american poet of all times even greater then walt whitman & walt disney.
I can’t think of another writer who can take the most horrible things imaginable and make them hilarious.
the only "beatnik" i like.