Charles Bukowski

Author Charles Bukowski was a prolific 20th century poet, short story writer and novelist. His work has been published in more than 100 books and 1,200 magazines. Bukowski spent most of his life in Los Angeles, and the city and its marginalized inhabitants figure prominently in his work.

Here at bukowski.net, the most comprehensive Bukowski resource available anywhere, you can access 1,500 poem and letter manuscripts and search our massive publications database to find extensive details about poems, stories, books and recordings. The database is the result of decades of research by a wide range of experts, and is continuously updated.

If you’re looking for something to read, take a look at our Checklist of every Bukowski book, and browse a selection of Bukowski poems, stories and interviews. You can also read the entire FBI file that was compiled on Bukowski, along with an illustrated timeline of his life and times, hundreds of examples of art that he madephotos, even an interactive map showing where he lived and worked.

If you have questions about anything Bukowski-related, you can ask them in our discussion forum where you are guaranteed to get a quick, knowledgeable answer. You don’t even need to register – log in with your Google+, Twitter or Facebook login.

If you want to know anything at all about the life or work of Charles Bukowski, this is the best place to find it.

Bukowski died on March 9, 1994, but his influence on modern poetry continues to be felt, despite his epitaph: Don’t try.

The Bukowski database currently contains:

https://bukowski.net/

• 5203 works (4599 unique works, 604 alternate titles or versions)
• 5128 works in 131 books
• 2552 works in 1187 magazines
• 56 broadsides
• 1566 manuscripts
• 42 releases of 21 different recording sessions or readings
• 268 links to audio recordings
• 684 links to scans of unpublished or uncollected workfirst magazine appearances and original texts in the forum

Poem For Personnel Managers

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An old man asked me for a cigarette
and I carefully dealt out two.
“Been lookin’ for job. Gonna stand
in the sun and smoke.”

He was close to rags and rage
and he leaned against death.
It was a cold day, indeed, and trucks
loaded and heavy as old whores
banged and tangled on the streets…

We drop like planks from a rotting floor
as the world strives to unlock the bone
that weights its brain.
(God is a lonely place without steak.)

We are dying birds
we are sinking ships –
the world rocks down against us
and we
throw out our arms
and we
throw out our legs
like the death kiss of the centipede:
but they kindly snap our backs
and call our poison “politics.”

Well, we smoked, he and I – little men
nibbling fish-head thoughts…

All the horses do not come in,
and as you watch the lights of the jails
and hospitals wink on and out,
and men handle flags as carefully as babies,
remember this:

you are a great-gutted instrument of
heart and belly, carefully planned –
so if you take a plane for Savannah,
take the best plane;
or if you eat chicken on a rock,
make it a very special animal.
(You call it a bird; I call birds
flowers.)

And if you decide to kill somebody,
make it anybody and not somebody;
some men are made of more special, precious
parts: do not kill
if you will
a president or a King
or a man
behind a desk –
these have heavenly longitudes
enlightened attitudes.

If you decide,
take us
who stand and smoke and glower;
we are rusty with sadness and
feverish
with climbing broken ladders.

Take us:
we were never children
like your children.
We do not understand love songs
like your inamorata.

Our faces are cracked linoleum,
cracked through with the heavy, sure
feet of our masters.

We are shot through with carrot tops
and poppyseed and tilted grammar;
and waste days like mad blackbirds
and pray for alcoholic nights.
Our silk-sick human smiles wrap around
us like somebody else’s confetti:
we do not even belong to the Party.
We are a scene chalked-out with the
sick white brush of age.

We smoke, asleep as a dish of figs.
We smoke, as dead as fog.

Take us.

A bathtub murder
or something quick and bright; our names
in the papers.

Known, at last, for a moment
to millions of careless and grape-dull eyes
that hold themselves private
to only flicker and flame
at the poor cracker-barrel jibes
of their conceited, pampered
correct comedians.

Known, at last, for a moment,
as they will be known
and as you will be known
by an all-gray man on an all-gray horse
who sits and fondles a sword
longer than the night
longer than the mountain’s aching backbone
longer than all the cries
that have a-bombed up out of throats
and exploded in a newer, less-planned
land.

We smoke and the clouds do not notice us.
A cat walks by and shakes Shakespeare off of his back.
Tallow, tallow, candle like wax: our spines
are limp and our consciousness burns
guilelessly away
the remaining wick life has
doled out to us.

An old man asked me for a cigarette
and told me his troubles
and this
is what he said:
that Age was a crime
and that Pity picked up the marbles
and that Hatred picked up the
cash.

He might have been your father
or mine.

He might have been a sex-fiend
or a saint.

But whatever he was,
he was condemned
and we stood in the sun and
smoked
and looked around
in our leisure
to see who was next in
line.

Charles Bukowski
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)