HenryChinaski
Founding member
Hey guys, I thought I should post this here. AD posted this as a bulliten on his myspace. I'm gonna pick up a copy of the holy grail but until then, this will keep me company. Enjoy!
p.s. I have to post it in halves because it's too long.
The below prose is from my book: The Holy Grail: Charles Bukowski And The Second Coming Revolution (Dustbooks). Hardback copies can still be ordered from the publisher for just $l5, which includes a center photo section with photos of Bukowski and other small press literary figures. As usual, with cut and paste, threre may be glitches in the sections that were copied. I tried to clean them up, but am not sure what will happen once I save them here at myspace. I gave up trying to correct the line breaks, where a new paragraph might appear when it should in fact not be a new paragraph. Myspace has a mind all its own.
Charles Bukowski (known to his friends as Hank) and I were friends for over seventeen years. We became friends in 1973 when I was editing and publishing Second Coming Magazine/Press, and continued our friendship over the long years. In 1974 we became closer friends after I published a Special Second Coming Bukowski issue. In letters, in telephone conversations, and in personal meetings, Hank and I discussed the small press world, and the role the poet has played in its development and history. Hank spent decades writing for the "small" magazines before he became an established literary and financial success. It has been more than a decade since his death, and his books continue to sell throughout the world.
There are people who believe you have to break bread or drink with a person on an on-going basis before you can call that person a friend. I don't subscribe to this point of view. I never met the late William Wantling, arguably one of the best poets to graduate from the U.S. penal system, but we corresponded regularly until his death in 1974, and I considered him a close friend
. I met Hank less than a handful of times, but he too was a friend of mine. Friends are there when you need them; at a low point in my life, when friends are never more important, Hank wrote me and said: "I know you are down and out, low on coin, spiritually molested like the rest of us; little chance but to hang on by the fingernails, work a line or two down on paper, and walk down the street and breathe the air of this shit life they've put upon us and that we've put upon ourselves."
This statement says a lot about who Hank was. He was a man who shot straight from the hip, the same way I have tried to do my entire life. I believe this is what helped make the two of us form a bond. There weren't any game between us. No need to wear masks.
He wasn't the personification of Jesus, nor was he the reincarnation of Satan. He was to put it simply, a damn fine poet and writer, but there is more to life than writing about whores, pimps, drunks and Sunday morning hangovers. Hank was a man of many virtues and admirable qualities, but to see him (as many do) as the Robin Hood of literature, a man whose motives and actions are in the best interest of the down and out, simply ignores the fact that he also betrayed and tore apart many former friends, both in short stories and in vindictive poems, frequently breaking off friendships whenever someone got to close to him, and often on brutal terms. As the late Marvin Malone and I learned, the less personal contact you had with him, the more he respected you, and the fewer attacks you faced
It's possible his inability to deal with love was largely the result of an unhappy childhood. He suffered from a skin condition resulting in disfiguring boils that left his face a road map of scars, and because of this, he often found himself cruelly taunted by his peers. At home, he received little or no comfort, often finding himself subjected to beatings by an ill-tempered and abusive father, who when he wasn't beating his son, took out his anger on his wife. If a person has never known love, it can be a frightening experience, for love requires trust, and I don't think Hank trusted many people, and there are many documented examples of his turning against former friends. I myself would later suffer the same fate. But the fact remains that Hank was an important part of Second Coming. He represented what Second Coming was all about. I have yet to meet another poet or writer who possessed the talent Hank had. To be sure, there were many bad poems and short stories that should never have seen print, but what writer among us can truthfully say he or she hasn't suffered the same fate?
No one moved me as deeply as Hank, or had the ability to bring tears to my eyes, as Hank did in his "Poem For Jane," and let there be no doubt he had few rivals when it came to humor. His first book, "Post Office", was written in nineteen days. The book is filled with laughter that shines through the pain of working at a dead-end job that kills a man's spirit and physically breaks him down. I know! I worked for the San Francisco post office for over five years, some of thee very same years that Hank was employed at the Los Angeles post office. On his death, he left behind a body of unpublished poems and short stories, which are still being published today, assuring his legion of fans that he will be with us for years to come.
It was now March 1994, and I was sitting in my apartment, in Noe Valley, San Francisco, reading the morning newspaper, and enjoying my first morning cup of coffee, when I turned to the entertainment section, and was shocked to find the obituary of Charles Bukowski. I thought it odd finding an obituary in the entertainment section of a newspaper; however, in retrospect, there was nothing odd about it at all. Hank had carefully scripted his reputation as a hard drinking, womanizing hero of the unfortunate and the down- trodden. The same people who bought his books and identified so strongly with him. In the end, he became as much an entertainer as he was a poet and writer. This is evidenced by the fact that in his last years, the actor Sean Penn became one of his closest friends. Entertainer or not, I was stunned to learn Hank was dead at the age of seventy-three.
Hank is on record as having said he never expected to live a long life. It's also a matter of record that in his mid-thirties, he lay near death, from a bleeding ulcer, in a Los Angeles hospital charity ward, the direct result of long years of hard drinking and even harder living. I had been aware for some time that he was battling a series of ailments brought on by advanced age and abuse of his body, but had not dwelled much on the matter. Most people tend to avoid thinking about death until it stares them straight in the face, as if not thinking about it will delay the inevitable outcome. In reality, death was a re-occurring theme in many of Hank's poems, especially over the last several years of his life. And it stalked his mythical character, in his final novel (Pulp) published shortly before his death.
I was saddened we had not corresponded with each other for several years. He was angered over a poem I wrote, which I do not believe was a put down poem (Small Press Poet Makes It Big). At the time I felt he might even find it humorous, given the fact he had poked fun at so many poets and writers over the long years. I may not even had written the poem, had he not told me early on in our friendship that one day I would read about him going cat fishing with James Dickey and Norman Mailer, and when that day came, I could write about it, and he would understand. However, It was not Dickey or Mailer who inspired me to write the poem, as much as it was the presence of actor Sean Penn and other Hollywood luminaries who came into his life after he gained a measure of fame. Even in his wildest dreams, he could never have imagined that some day he would have Hollywood movie idols paying him homage; movie Stars who visited his home, bringing with them what Hank felt were "God awful" poems.
I was hardly the only one to experience his wrath. Hank and Doug Blazek, the former editor and publisher of Ole magazine, whom Hank corresponded with for years, developed a strong kinship between them, which ended shortly after they met in person. And John Bryan, a fringe member of the Beat generation, and the former editor and publisher of Open City, who first paid Bukowski for his column, "Notes From A Dirty Old Man", is yet another small press luminary who had a falling out with him. The list is lengthy, and includes well-known small press figures like Harold Norse, Linda King, and Jon and Gypsy Lou Webb, from LouJon Press. Other poets like Steve Richmond and Neeli Cherkovski, also found themselves in disfavor with Hank, only to later be brought back into his good graces. However, the fact remains Hank was hurt by the poem I wrote about him. I believe in his heart, he felt I had betrayed him. He responded by writing a poem titled "Poem for the Poet up North," which was published in Impulse, a small Southern California literary magazine. The gist of the poem was that he had once shared a few drinks with me (Before he became successful), and because he later gained literary fame that this somehow "gnawed" away at me. He couldn't have been more wrong. I responded with a poem of my own ("Poem For the Poet Down South"), which Impulse magazine also published. As far as I'm aware of, this ended the feud between us, and the attacks went no further. Hank went about his life doing what he did best, writing his poetry and prose, while I went about my life as an Equal Opportunity Specialist for the Department of Education, Office for Civil Rights, investigating claims of discrimination against minorities, women and the disabled, while writing my own poems, prose, and essays when time permitted.
p.s. I have to post it in halves because it's too long.
The below prose is from my book: The Holy Grail: Charles Bukowski And The Second Coming Revolution (Dustbooks). Hardback copies can still be ordered from the publisher for just $l5, which includes a center photo section with photos of Bukowski and other small press literary figures. As usual, with cut and paste, threre may be glitches in the sections that were copied. I tried to clean them up, but am not sure what will happen once I save them here at myspace. I gave up trying to correct the line breaks, where a new paragraph might appear when it should in fact not be a new paragraph. Myspace has a mind all its own.
Charles Bukowski (known to his friends as Hank) and I were friends for over seventeen years. We became friends in 1973 when I was editing and publishing Second Coming Magazine/Press, and continued our friendship over the long years. In 1974 we became closer friends after I published a Special Second Coming Bukowski issue. In letters, in telephone conversations, and in personal meetings, Hank and I discussed the small press world, and the role the poet has played in its development and history. Hank spent decades writing for the "small" magazines before he became an established literary and financial success. It has been more than a decade since his death, and his books continue to sell throughout the world.
There are people who believe you have to break bread or drink with a person on an on-going basis before you can call that person a friend. I don't subscribe to this point of view. I never met the late William Wantling, arguably one of the best poets to graduate from the U.S. penal system, but we corresponded regularly until his death in 1974, and I considered him a close friend
. I met Hank less than a handful of times, but he too was a friend of mine. Friends are there when you need them; at a low point in my life, when friends are never more important, Hank wrote me and said: "I know you are down and out, low on coin, spiritually molested like the rest of us; little chance but to hang on by the fingernails, work a line or two down on paper, and walk down the street and breathe the air of this shit life they've put upon us and that we've put upon ourselves."
This statement says a lot about who Hank was. He was a man who shot straight from the hip, the same way I have tried to do my entire life. I believe this is what helped make the two of us form a bond. There weren't any game between us. No need to wear masks.
He wasn't the personification of Jesus, nor was he the reincarnation of Satan. He was to put it simply, a damn fine poet and writer, but there is more to life than writing about whores, pimps, drunks and Sunday morning hangovers. Hank was a man of many virtues and admirable qualities, but to see him (as many do) as the Robin Hood of literature, a man whose motives and actions are in the best interest of the down and out, simply ignores the fact that he also betrayed and tore apart many former friends, both in short stories and in vindictive poems, frequently breaking off friendships whenever someone got to close to him, and often on brutal terms. As the late Marvin Malone and I learned, the less personal contact you had with him, the more he respected you, and the fewer attacks you faced
It's possible his inability to deal with love was largely the result of an unhappy childhood. He suffered from a skin condition resulting in disfiguring boils that left his face a road map of scars, and because of this, he often found himself cruelly taunted by his peers. At home, he received little or no comfort, often finding himself subjected to beatings by an ill-tempered and abusive father, who when he wasn't beating his son, took out his anger on his wife. If a person has never known love, it can be a frightening experience, for love requires trust, and I don't think Hank trusted many people, and there are many documented examples of his turning against former friends. I myself would later suffer the same fate. But the fact remains that Hank was an important part of Second Coming. He represented what Second Coming was all about. I have yet to meet another poet or writer who possessed the talent Hank had. To be sure, there were many bad poems and short stories that should never have seen print, but what writer among us can truthfully say he or she hasn't suffered the same fate?
No one moved me as deeply as Hank, or had the ability to bring tears to my eyes, as Hank did in his "Poem For Jane," and let there be no doubt he had few rivals when it came to humor. His first book, "Post Office", was written in nineteen days. The book is filled with laughter that shines through the pain of working at a dead-end job that kills a man's spirit and physically breaks him down. I know! I worked for the San Francisco post office for over five years, some of thee very same years that Hank was employed at the Los Angeles post office. On his death, he left behind a body of unpublished poems and short stories, which are still being published today, assuring his legion of fans that he will be with us for years to come.
It was now March 1994, and I was sitting in my apartment, in Noe Valley, San Francisco, reading the morning newspaper, and enjoying my first morning cup of coffee, when I turned to the entertainment section, and was shocked to find the obituary of Charles Bukowski. I thought it odd finding an obituary in the entertainment section of a newspaper; however, in retrospect, there was nothing odd about it at all. Hank had carefully scripted his reputation as a hard drinking, womanizing hero of the unfortunate and the down- trodden. The same people who bought his books and identified so strongly with him. In the end, he became as much an entertainer as he was a poet and writer. This is evidenced by the fact that in his last years, the actor Sean Penn became one of his closest friends. Entertainer or not, I was stunned to learn Hank was dead at the age of seventy-three.
Hank is on record as having said he never expected to live a long life. It's also a matter of record that in his mid-thirties, he lay near death, from a bleeding ulcer, in a Los Angeles hospital charity ward, the direct result of long years of hard drinking and even harder living. I had been aware for some time that he was battling a series of ailments brought on by advanced age and abuse of his body, but had not dwelled much on the matter. Most people tend to avoid thinking about death until it stares them straight in the face, as if not thinking about it will delay the inevitable outcome. In reality, death was a re-occurring theme in many of Hank's poems, especially over the last several years of his life. And it stalked his mythical character, in his final novel (Pulp) published shortly before his death.
I was saddened we had not corresponded with each other for several years. He was angered over a poem I wrote, which I do not believe was a put down poem (Small Press Poet Makes It Big). At the time I felt he might even find it humorous, given the fact he had poked fun at so many poets and writers over the long years. I may not even had written the poem, had he not told me early on in our friendship that one day I would read about him going cat fishing with James Dickey and Norman Mailer, and when that day came, I could write about it, and he would understand. However, It was not Dickey or Mailer who inspired me to write the poem, as much as it was the presence of actor Sean Penn and other Hollywood luminaries who came into his life after he gained a measure of fame. Even in his wildest dreams, he could never have imagined that some day he would have Hollywood movie idols paying him homage; movie Stars who visited his home, bringing with them what Hank felt were "God awful" poems.
I was hardly the only one to experience his wrath. Hank and Doug Blazek, the former editor and publisher of Ole magazine, whom Hank corresponded with for years, developed a strong kinship between them, which ended shortly after they met in person. And John Bryan, a fringe member of the Beat generation, and the former editor and publisher of Open City, who first paid Bukowski for his column, "Notes From A Dirty Old Man", is yet another small press luminary who had a falling out with him. The list is lengthy, and includes well-known small press figures like Harold Norse, Linda King, and Jon and Gypsy Lou Webb, from LouJon Press. Other poets like Steve Richmond and Neeli Cherkovski, also found themselves in disfavor with Hank, only to later be brought back into his good graces. However, the fact remains Hank was hurt by the poem I wrote about him. I believe in his heart, he felt I had betrayed him. He responded by writing a poem titled "Poem for the Poet up North," which was published in Impulse, a small Southern California literary magazine. The gist of the poem was that he had once shared a few drinks with me (Before he became successful), and because he later gained literary fame that this somehow "gnawed" away at me. He couldn't have been more wrong. I responded with a poem of my own ("Poem For the Poet Down South"), which Impulse magazine also published. As far as I'm aware of, this ended the feud between us, and the attacks went no further. Hank went about his life doing what he did best, writing his poetry and prose, while I went about my life as an Equal Opportunity Specialist for the Department of Education, Office for Civil Rights, investigating claims of discrimination against minorities, women and the disabled, while writing my own poems, prose, and essays when time permitted.