A Bukowski Writing Lesson

1. A Bukowski Writing Lesson

   It’s about this time he pulls out my first book of poetry, the copy I mailed him three months earlier. He starts reading the very first poem:
   
   i tore my nails into
   my stomach ripping a hole
   big enough to put my hand
   into me with blind fingers
   feeling between intestines
   and liver for the flower of
   me, until i found it pulling
   it out, holding it in my bloody
   right hand until my left hand
   got hold of my soul, and i
   took the two and smashed them
   together until they became a
   solid piece of total beauty
   for me to throw with all
   my strength into the
   stars
   
   I’m watching close as he reads it through. He seems to not be hurting at all so I feel it’s all working nicely and then he gets to the last word and he suddenly goes, “OOOOOHHH SHIT. IT WAS GOING FINE RIGHT UP TO THAT LAST WORD-STARS-OHH IT’S TOO DAMN BAD, OH - WHAT A SHAME!”
   
   I was asking myself “What? What in the hell does he mean? What’s wrong with stars? I’ve never heard anything bad about ‘stars’ said to me in my lifetime.”
   
   Bukowski spoke on, “STARS is so goddamn ultra poetic. You can’t use STARS. STARS STARS STARS FUCK TH’ GODDAMN STARS! What a shame, kid. You had it strong up to the last word, then gone, ruined, all th’damn dead false sewing circle poets are forever writing STARS STARS STARS!! They can’t even write a line without STARS in it somewhere. I’m so sorry kid.”