Charles Bukowski





for my ivy league friends:

many of those I met on the reading circuit or heard about on
        the reading
circuit in the old days are now either teaching or poets-in-
        residence
and have garnered Guggenheims and N.E.A.’s and sundry other
        grants.
well, I tried for a Gugg once myself, even got an N.E.A. so I
        can’t
knock the act
but
you should have seen them back then: raggedy-ass, wild-eyed,
        raving
against the order
now
they have been ingested, digested, rested
they write reviews for the journals
they write Well-worked, quiet, inoffensive poesy
they edit so many of the magazines that I have no idea where I
        should send this
poem
since they attack my work with alarming regularity
and
I can’t read theirs
yet their attacks upon me have been effective in this country
and
if it weren’t for Europe I’d probably still be a starving writer
or down at the row
or diggin weeds out of your garden
or . . . ?

well
you know the old saying: it’s all a matter of
taste
and
either they’re right and l’m wrong or l’m right and they’re all
wrong
or
maybe it’s some place in between.
most of the people in the world could care less
and
I often feel the same
way.