Old school – NEW world

Bridging the gap . . .

Tag: Bukowski

Fante . . . Dante . . . Fanta

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I gave John Fante one or two more chances to prove that I didn’t waste my money on some Eye-talian jerk-off author now idolized by the cognoscenti . . .

I don’t care if Bukowski thought he was God . . . so far . . . as of page 44, nothing but little boy lost in L.A. . . . and I was getting ready to close the book and . . . get a Pepsi . . .

Fante was starting to appear as a elitist snob . . . a “writer” . . . and I still think he was . . . an Italian American snob . . .

I skipped some pages . . . did a fast-forward, scanning the pages for something . . and after Chapter 7 . . . after Arturo gets some cash AND some pussy, things got a bit better . . . I settled down and finished Ask the Dust in about 90 minutes . . . yeh, there’s some good stuff, but I won’t be getting any other books by Fante . . . much rather spend my $$$ on orange Fanta at Jack-in-the-Box . . . that’s right literati . . . orange Fanta . . .

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bukomputerkowski . . .

just finished reading a piece about Bukowski and his Mac . . . and I received in the mail a copy of some stuff I wrote back in 1983 or 4 . . .

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I was still “sticking the mails” and infatuated with the literary potential of copy machines for creating pages of images and poetry . . . sequentially degenerating visual information . . . making the word mechanical . . . exploring the “zeen” . . .

Some pics of “no . . . nothing

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I was using an old Smith-Coronatyper” at the time . . . you can see some “deleted” letters typed over . . . an option sadly not available with word processing software . . . takes some of the “character” away from computer generated text.

What I did on the last day of March . . .

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Got out of bed at 0530
Went back to bed
Got out of bed again at 0720
Drank coffee
Researched “womanize
Looked up “a la mujereiga
Listened to the wind . . .
Visited my mother and informed her that the fax machine is a thing of the past . .
And then showed her how to scan a document and save it as a PDF and then EMAIL the freaking PDF
Got an email asking me to hang 8 watercolors . . .
Found Celine’sJOURNEY TO THE END OF THE NIGHT” (English translation) and saved it to my Phraseology app

Pumpjack . . . poema

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. . . I decided to air a recent poem . . .
As Bukowski said, “. . . as close to love poem as I’ll get . . . ”

+++++++++++++++

Pumpjack . . . (Pumpensteckfassung)

. . . a one-cylinder engine . . . one-cylinder fuck engine . . .

Breath huffing with each compression stroke . . . .
“sucker” rod piston-ing . . . slow motion piston action
(Kolbentätigkeit der langsamen Bewegung).

. . . in . . . out . . . up, down

Exhaust stroke . . .

exhale . . .

. . . atmen Sie aus.

Puh! (Hauch)

. . . inhale . . .

Puh! (Hauch)

. . . inhalieren Sie . . .

Puh! (Hauch)

My great-grandfather (großes – Großvater)
had an old one-cylinder gas engine
harnessed to a circular saw blade . . . belt pulley . . .
drove the saw blade . . . steel singing hollow song
as it spun . . .

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. . . the exhaust,
a passionate explosion
muffled by orchard trees,
the emptiness
Of a cloudless sky . . .

. . . the drill hole . . .
penis plunger
sucker rod
suctioning . . .
driven by
mindless motor . . .

Wellhead snug,
clasping,
excess fluids leaking
a dark shadow
. . . under ass cleft (sous la fissure d’âne . . .)

. . . my engine (Maschine) fueled
the heat of her belly . . .

I sense the oil field . . . Signal Hill
walking beam horse heads
(pompes) bobbing up and down
flywheel counterweights
rotating . . . pushing . . . pulling
up . . . down . . . up . . . down . . .

die pumpen
I imagined
behind chain link fences,
pistoning robots . . . Roboter . . .
auto-matic . . .
polishing tiges de polissage (polishing rods)

up . . . down . . .
“sucker rods” . . . erect Fleisch
pushing . . .

invisible pitman
fastened at hip joint
pushing . . . pulling

oily pungence
Open window . . .
rainbow stained ground . . .

The tense slap of pulley belts
In grooved metal
iron counter weights rotating . . .
metallic groans . . .

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an invisible fog
Seeping into the ears . .

Walking” beams . . .
oversize “dippy” birds . . .

“Horse Pferdenköpfe heads” pushing, pulling . . .
slender steel
Lifting on the upstroke
dragging black oil up
from the depths
. . . pulling . . . suctioning

the viscous crude
up out of the darkness . . .

Up, down . . .
whrrrr . . . clank . . . whrrrr . . .
metal on metal . . . clank ( . . . Klirren).
. . . up-stroke apogee . . . slight hesitation

Bushings . . . wrist pins . . .
dark grease oozing from joints,
motionless . . .

a split second . . .

before
the compression stroke
resumes . . . down,

. . . Five deep, two shallow . . .
only works when fokka . . . te faire foutre.

. . . down . . .

(pause)

Up . . .

Puh!

Puh!

. . . mouth slightly open (bouche légèrement ouverte) . . .
Her mouth open (. . . sa bouche ouverte)

Puh!

. . . breasts wobbling . . . (flatternde Brüste)
(Ihre flatternden Brüste)

Puh!

. . . with each downstroke

Puh!

. . . compressing (Zusammendrücken) . . . Puh!

I woke up . . .
tick of my bedside clock

. . . exhalation
a one cylinder engine . . .

soft explosion
against my face . . .
. . . in my dream . . .

. . . des yeux s’est fermée (the eyes closed).

Puh!

Flash back . . .

. . . “I no reserbation indun” . . .

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I just re-read my “Crunchy Numbers” post from months back, and probably should translate the text at the top of the page . . . all it means is: I’m not an Indian who lives on the reservation . . . further translation . . . Just because I’m a North American Indian, as opposed to a native from India, doesn’t mean that I live on the reservation . . . s-o-o-o don’t try to “relate” to me by tossing random Owens Valley Paiute terminology into the conversation . . . u-u-uh . . . no habla . . .

Where was I . . . oh . . .

Well . . . here’s one for the book . . . there’s a name that’s disturbing the “wa” . . . MY “wa” and that’s not good . . . somehow I should know the person mentioned in the comment, but I cannot access the data . . . anyway, why would her daughter be commenting on the post??
Yeh . . . well . . .

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. . . the following is an excerpt from a comment awaiting approval that prompted this post/comment:

Do you still want me make obscene phone calls to a pay phone?

WTF!!? is some ghost from my past attempting to contact me? . . .

After sussing the ether, it’s starting to come back to me . . . the Post Office . . . Long Beach CA . . . downtown main . . . Pine Street . . . u-u-uh . . . and my vision becomes blurred . . . probably the graveyard shift . . . godamn!! . . . had to be graveyard, cos it wasn’t at Pacific Station or North Long Beach or Bixby . . . eventually I worked as a letter sorting machine operator, letter distribution clerk, etc. etc. etc. and resigned after 20 years . . . that’s more time than Bukowski ever managed . . . AND with fewer hangovers.

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. . . about the “obscene” phone calls . . . I plead insanity . . . musta been under the influence . . . of something . . . so I decided some colorful fauve influenced images were in order . . . AND I’m going to update my ABOUT page. . .

Photos from a street art gallery south of Mina NV and my iPad2 . . . State Highway 95 . . . east side of the road.

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. . . dope will get through times of no money better than money will get you through time of no dope . . . ” . . . and Abraham Lincoln never said that . . .

p.s. sorry Crystal . . . I trashed your “comment” cos it wasn’t really a “comment” . . .

Trashman – NSFW

A visit to the underground world of comics and the P.O. . . .

T-MAN

T-MAN

This copy of Trashman is yellowed and brittle as can be seen in the following photo – bought this at a “head shop” on Anaheim Street in Long Beach, California many moons ago (1970’s) . . . I was living on Redondo Street, 1/2 a block south of Pacific Coast Highway.

T-MAN

. . . in the midst of the turmoil beauty is rampant . . . if you like leather . . . strippers and . . .
I was working as a clerk at the U.S. Post Office – had to do something to support my comik book habit . . .

T-MAN

After passing my scheme quals, I began working the swing shift – 1500 to 2330, six days a week – saw a lot of porn from Sweden in addition to several overly friendly female P.O. clerks . . . the “swing” or lunch room was a place of fleshy, short skirt delights and shared Twinkies . . .

T-MAN

Charles Bukowski worked at the P.O. in Los Angeles and wrote a book (Post Office) about his experiences as a clerk and a substitute letter carrier – was a little less than what was going on in the mail processing center in the Long Beach area. Most of Bukowski’s illicit activities were outside of the Post Office – bars, hotels, not necessarily related to the actual Post Office itself.

T-MAN

. . . didn’t have to be in the rock and roll game to have SEX and drugs – could do a joint at lunch and get “tossed off” (in the words of a female acquaintance), all in the parking lot – then go back inside the facility, case up some mail and finish your shift!

T-MAN

T-MAN

I attended the San Francisco Art Institute (days of wine and women) for a short time before moving to the underground Post Office scene in Long Beach – didn’t need the Filmore or the Haight in S.F anymore.

T-MAN

. . . Cynthia pondering the night from her apartment balcony . . .

T-MAN