-Christian Dior.

"OPEN SESAME - I WANT OUT."

-Stanislas Jerzy Lec.

"A YARDSTICK DOES NOT SAY THAT

THE OBJECT TO BE MEASURED.

IS ONE YARD LONG."

-Ludwig Wittgenstein.

I am a bit gone on beer. "Say, I like that last one: "the object to be murdered does not have to be a yard long."

"I think that's even better but it's not what is said."

"all right. how's Kaakaa? that's baby-language for s.h.i.t, and a more s.e.xy woman I've never seen.

"I know. and it started with Kafka. she used to like Kafka and I called her that. then she changed it herself." he gets up and walks to a photo. "come *ere, Bukowski." I flip my beercan into the trashcan and walk on over. "what's this?" asks Sanchez.

I look at the photo. it is a very good photo.

"well, it looks like a c.o.c.k."

"what kind of c.o.c.k?"

" a stiff c.o.c.k, a big one."

"it's mine."

"so?"

"don't you notice?"

"what?"

"the sperm."

"yes, I see it. I didn't want to say-"

"why not? what the h.e.l.l's wrong with you?"

"I don't understand."

"I mean, do you see the sperm or don't you?"

"what do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm JACKING OFF, can't you understand how hard that is to do?"

"it's not hard, Sanchez, I do it all the time-"

"oh, you ox! I mean I had the camera rigged-up with a string.

Do you realize what an enactment it was to remain quietly in focus, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e and trigger the camera at the same time?"

"I don't use a camera."

"how many men do? you miss the point, as usual. who the h.e.l.l you are translated into the German, the Spanish, the French and so forth, I'll never know! look, do you realize that it took me THREE DAYS to make this SIMPLE photograph? do you know how many times I had to j.a.c.k.o.f.f?"

"4 times?"

"TEN TIMES!"

"oh, Lord! how about Kaakaa?"

"she liked the photo."

"I mean-"

"good G.o.d, boy, I don't have the tongue to answer your sima"

plicity."

He goes on around back there and plops himself in his chair again. among his wires and pliers and translations and his huge BITTER-LEAP notebook, Adolph's nose glued to the black front with edgeworks of the Berlin bunker in the background.

"I'm working on something now," I tell him, "short about me walking in to interview the great composer. he's drunk. I get drunk, there's a maid. we're on the wine. he leans forward and tells me, *The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth,'-"

"yeah?"

"and then he says, *translated that means that the stupid have the greatest persistency.'"

"kind of lousy." he says, "but it's all right for you."

"but I don't know what to do with the story. I've got the maid walking around in a very short thing and I don't know what to do with it. I thought I might save the story by whiplashing the maid with my belt buckle and then sucking the composer's d.i.c.k. but I've never sucked d.i.c.k, never felt like it, I'm square, so I left the story in the center and never finished it."

"every man is a h.o.m.o, a d.i.c.k-sucker; every woman is a d.y.k.e, why do you worry so much?"

"because if I'm happy I'm no good and I don't want to be no good."

We sit there a while and then she comes from upstairs, the flaxen straight string hair.

it's the first woman I could eat, I think.

but she walks past Sanchez and his tongue licks his lips just a bit, she walks past me like separate ball-bearings of magic wavering crazy flesh, may the heavens kiss my b.a.l.l.s if it is not so, and she waves through it all glorious as avalanche smashed by sun- "h.e.l.lo, Hank," she says.

"Kaakaa," I laugh.

she goes behind her table and begins her bits of painting and he sits there, Sanchez, beard blacker than black power, but calm calm, no claims. I begin to get drunk, say nasty things, say anything.

then I begin to get dull. I mumble, I murmur. "Oh, sorry-ta spoil yr evening-so sorry, f.u.c.kers-ya-I'm a killer but I won't kill anybody. I got cla.s.s. I'm Bukowski! translated into SEVEN LANGUAGES! I AM the ONE! BUKOWSKI!"

I fall forward trying to look at the j.a.c.k.o.f.f picture again, pitch over something. it is one of my own shoes. I have this G.o.d d.a.m.n bad habit of taking off my own shoes.

"Hank," she says, "be careful."

"Bukowski?" he asks, "You all right?"

he lifts me up. "man, I think you better stay here tonight."

"NO G.o.d d.a.m.n IT, I'M GOING TO THE WOODa"

CHOPPERS BALL!"

next thing I know he's got me over his shoulder, Sanchez has and he's carrying me to his upstairs pad, you know, where he and his woman do the thing, and then I'm down on the bed, he's gone.

door closed, and then I hear some kind of music downstairs, and laughter, the both of them, but kind laughter, no malice, and I did not know what to do, one did not expect the best, luck or people everybody failed you finally, well, and then the door opened, a pop of light, and there was Sanchez - "hey, Bubu, a bottle of good French wine-sip it slowly, do you most good. you'll sleep. be happy. I won't say we love you, that's too easy. and if you want to come downstairs, dance and sing, talk, o.k. do what you want. here's the wine."

he hands me the bottle. I lift it like some crazy cornet, again and again. through a ripped curtain a part of the worn moon leaps. it is a perfectly good night; it is not jail; it is far from thata"

in the morning when I awaken, go down to p.i.s.s, come out from p.i.s.sing, I find them both asleep on that narrow couch hardly enough for one body, but they are not one body and their faces together and asleep their bodies together and asleep, why be corny??? I only feel the tiny clutch at the throat, the automatic transmission blues of loveliness, that somebody has it, that they don't even hate me-that they even wish me what?- I walk out staunching and griefing and feeling and sick and blue and bukowski, old, starlit sun, my G.o.d, reaching into the final corner, the last midnight blast, cold Mr. C., big H, Mary Mary, clean as a bug on the wall, the heat of December a brainweb across my everlasting spine, Mercy like Kerouac's dead baby sprawled across Mexican railroad tracks in the everlasting July of suck-off tombs, I maybe writing this down by myself, leaving a few things out (I have been threatened by various powerful forces for doing things that are only normal and gaga gladful to do) and I get into my eleven year old car and now I have driven away find myself here and write you here a little illegal story of love beyond myself but, perhaps, understandable to you.

yours truly, Sanchez and Bukowski p.s. - this time the Heat missed. don't keep more than you can swallow: love, heat or hate.

3chickens Vicki was all right, but we had our troubles. we were on the wine. port, that woman would get drunk and get to talking and she would make up some of the vilest imaginable stuff about me. and that tone of voice. shoddy and lisping and grating and insane. it would get to any man. it got to me.

once she was screaming these insanities from the fold-down bed in our apartment. I begged her to stop. but she wouldn't. finally, I just walked over, lifted up the bed with her in it and folded everything into the wall.

then I went over and sat down and listened to her scream.

but she kept screaming so I walked over and pulled the bed out of the wall again there she lay, holding her arm, claiming it was broken.

"your arm can't be broken," I said.

"it is, it is. oh, you slimy j.a.c.k.o.f.f b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you've broken my arm!"

I had some more drinks but she just kept holding her arm and whining. I finally had enough and telling her I'd be right back I went downstairs and outside and found some old wooden boxes behind a grocery store. I found good st.u.r.dy slats, ripped them off, pulled out the nails, got back on the elevator and rode back to our apartment.

it took about 4 slats. I bound them around her arm with rippings from one of her dresses. she quieted down for a couple of hours. then she started in again. I couldn't take it anymore. so I called a taxi, we went to the General Hospital, as soon as the taxi left I took the boards off and threw them into the street. then they x-rayed her CHEST and put her arm in a cast. can you imagine that?

I suppose if she broke her head they'd x-ray her a.s.s.

anyhow, she used to sit in the bars after that and say, "I am the only woman who has been folded into a wall in a wall bed."

and I wasn't so sure of THAT either, but I let her go on saying it.

now, another time she angered me and I slapped her but it was across the mouth and it broke her false teeth.

I was surprised that it broke her false teeth. and I went out and got this super cement glue and I glued her teeth together for her.

it worked for a while and then one night as she sat there drinking her wine she suddenly had a mouthful of broken teeth.

that wine was so strong it undid the glue. it was disgusting. we had to get her some new teeth. how we did it, I don't quite remember, but she claimed they made her look like a horse.

we'd usually always have these arguments after we drank awhile, and Vicki claimed I'd get very mean when I was drunk but I think that she was the one who was mean. anyhow, sometime during the argument she'd get up, slam the door and run outside to some bar. "looking for a live one," as the girls would say.

it always made me feel bad when she left. I've got to admit it.

sometimes she wouldn't come back for 2 or 3 days. and nights. it wasn't a very nice thing to do.

one time she ran out and I sat there drinking the wine, thinking about it. then I got up and found the elevator and rode on down to the streets too. I found her in her favorite bar. she sat there holding a kind of purple scarf. I'd never seen the purple scarf before.

holding out on me. I walked up to her and said quite loudly: "I've tried to make a woman out of you but you're nothing but a G.o.d d.a.m.ned wh.o.r.e!"

the bar was full. every seat taken. I lifted my hand. I swung. I backhanded her off that G.o.d d.a.m.ned stool. she fell to the floor and screamed.

this was at the back end of the bar. I didn't even turn to look at her. I walked the length of the bar to the exit. then I turned and faced the crowd. it was very quiet.

"now," I said to them, "if there's anybody here who doesn't LIKE what I just did, just SAY something-"

it was quieter than quiet.

I turned around and walked out the doorway. the moment I hit the street I could hear them babbling and buzzing in there, buzzing and babbling.

the s.h.i.tS! not a man in the boatload!

- but, of course, she came back, and, well, anyhow to get on, this one night lately we are sitting around drinking the wine and the same old arguments started. this time I decided to go.

I'M GONNA GET THE f.u.c.k OUTA THIS HOLE!" I yelled at Vicki. "I CAN'T STAND NO MORE OF YOUR G.o.d d.a.m.nED ABUSE!"

she jumped in front of the door.

"over my dead body, that's the only way you are getting out of here!

"o.k., if that's the way it's gotta be."

I slammed her a good one and she fell down in front of the doorway. I had to move her body to get out.