I think so.
HenryChinaski hasn't told us for sure which poem, but I also thought it was the one about the artist/sculptress.
As you said,
cirerita, being an early one its not likely about Linda King.
I wondered if it might be about FrancEyE Smith, the mother of his daughter Marina, as she is an artist and quite a hippy, and the line
she told me I had a good life-flow
seems to be the sort of thing she may have said back then? Maybe we'll never know.
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Experience [from The Rooming House Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966]
there is a lady down the hall who paints
butterflies and insects
and there are little statues in the room,
she works with clay
and I went in there
and sat on the couch and had something to drink,
then I noticed
one of the statues had his back turned to us,
he stood there brooding, poor bastard,
and I asked the lady
what's wrong with him?
and she said, I messed him up,
in the front, sort of.
I see, I said, and finished my drink,
you haven't had too much experience with men.
she laughed and brought me another drink.
we talked about Klee,
the death of cummings,
Art, survival and so forth.
you ought to know more about men,
I told her.
I know, she said. do you like me?
of course, I told her.
she brought me another drink.
we talked about Ezra Pound.
Van Gogh.
all those things.
she sat down next to me.
I remember she had a small white mustache.
she told me I had a good life-flow
and was manly.
I told her she had nice legs.
we talked about Mahler.
I don't remember leaving.
I saw her a week later
and she asked me in.
I fixed him, she said.
who? I asked.
my man in the corner, she told me.
good, I said.
want to see? she asked
sure, I said.
she walked to the corner and turned
him around.
he was fixed, all right
my god, it was ME!
then I began to laugh and she laughed
and the work of Art stood there,
a very beautiful thing.
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Reading The Latest Posthumous Collection by FrancEye, from LUMMOX Journal Aug 2000
These aren't his best poems
I can see them on the closet floor, a paper hill
where he'd throw them when they came back
from whoever rejected them.
Then once in a while
Stanley would come over
and find a good one or two and take them for his reading,
but most of them
he'd look at a minute
then throw back:
"That's shit."
Bukowski would say later
I don't see how a man
can do that - look
at poems for seconds and say
This one's good, that's shit.
But it's such good shit. I'm so happy hearing that voice
and there's something special too about reading Bukowski
not because I'm
grabbed and held
by the lines that won't let go,
but just because I
want to. It's a fat book. I
turn the page, say "Please.
Tell me another story."
They're not his best, but
for me there's no such thing
as a bad one.
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So, who's got the next question?