Beerspit Night and Cursing (38 page)

Plants & herbs of the heavens! O plants and herbs I call upon you to keep guard over Charles Bukowski while his spirit sister meditates upon her sinful desires in order to purify herself for The Most Ancient High.

O herbs your lord is
Soma
& you are made by Brihaspati.

With this charm Indra kill’d Vritra & smashed Asuras & is master of Heaven & Earth…Indra, Vishnu, Savitar, Rudra, Agni, Prajapati, Parameshthin, Viraj, Vaysvanara…powerful spirits stand behind this invocation for Charles Bukowski—

The Sun, the Wind, the Rain be with him; the fire guide him…Savitar the Saver guard him…the great Vayu…living Indra…Let him count a hundred summers…Svaha—let Sphota come…Yama! come! Thakur watch—Mahamaya watch…manomaya-kosha of blue light shot with gold flames…Svaha!
cosi sia
—

there Buk—that will keep you in ice while ah melts offrf mah snake skin—
AND
iffn ah sells any of my “saintly & shining stuff” ah will send
YOU
to the wildnerness to de-louse yo’ self br’r Buk—so say yr magic prayers & incantations for this frail female—and encl some more shining forms for you to look at / we send you love and a vision of the coming of the first spring to our universe—

Sheri

[
undated
]

Buk moi lamb: yes please do mail me a copy of
yr book
—I want to send it to Jaz Laughlin (New Directions) after I read it of course—I wish he’d pick up on you—he cd if he wd—am glad you are working—to be independant—or is it independent—is the top in life—it is the edge we got on these chicken shit boys—i wish you wd take a breather from yr Low Life and find out who you really are—and employ yr $&¢ to print some of yr work—to help yrself all you can—

don’t you know this is just
ONE
of yr lives on earth?? and
Mr. Cayce
the yogi—american yogi—said that when a soul is born with rough skin it is a sign that in a previous life that soul was overly sexual and sensual—that is you to a T—boy—and here you are livin’ it up still! Don’t you
KNOW
your ass will be kicked right back? Buk you got to r e - f o r m—that is what it means—take a NEW form—the trouble is that you are too bloody sophisticated—lost yr original innocence—why don’t you take a stab at the Xtian Scientists??? they—no matter how corny—are in touch with Prama—the tree sap of the universal tree of life—which has great power to heal—and bring abt a change of heart—you cd do so much if you’d drop ho’sez and who’zz and juicin—leave it for the new sinner—and you get right—get
R I G H T
with God(t)—save your money and DO something for the Body of Light whence cometh forth all fruits known of as poetry & art—

nuff for now—but you hear—
DO
something—my god look at what the blacks are doing with their little bit of light—(plus the red fist shovin’ a hot poker up their arse of cozzz) love and re form buk!

And do let me have a copy for to read & send to Laughlin/

Sheri

10. Nov 65 Bx 1044 Pacifica Calif

dammit ALL Bukowski
—where are your little set of poems that were here yesterday?????? I cant find them—they are somewhere here in my little desk—if they don’t get included in this letter then I will send them down presto pronto soon’s they stick their snouts up—

I just got yr address from
Veryl Rosenbaum
—I sent her photostats of the scrolls you wrote & drew upon for me as Gib likes them & got sad at the idea of their being folded in the mail—then I sent what rest I had of your letters—exciting to think of a book of your letters—and its effect upon our exploding population—that’ll finish ’em Buk—that’s a goodttt kidtttt—You do reach moments of fierce clarity—inbetween your more earthy—cthonic—perceptions & observations.

A terrible experience drove me to star gaze—and I discovered astrology is right on time babe & I got my shit-hookers tight on books about it & can now cast a rudimentary horoscope—my stars were precisely in the position to jolt me & I stood inbetween life and death—and I chose life and got reborn—I was a slob before—I am now a hard boiled egg. All this leads up to:

I’d like to
SEE
your stars—you Star you—zo—let loose midttt der following: give me your: hour & minute of birth or thereabouts—your birth day & year & month—let me know immijit—and then I will tell you about
YOU
—Gib sez he’s gonna buy me a tall, tall hat with a big star on top—that’s how stars effect us!!!

Please do
NOT
see this as ‘how much mist could a mist stick stick if a mist stick could stick mist’—Our charts are our report cards from our Universe-ity—Our cosmic bank accounts.

and I still cant see the poems—oh
THERE
they are!! I wish I were making a new
A & P
—but right now I got my hands full—I reluctantly return them suh—I know you do not make copies—

re: the 4th line of
Red Bricks in My Eyes
—“even Love, whatever that means”—the root meaning for Love is “I please”—Love pleases whenever it can truthfully—sometimes compassion moves Love—sometimes pity but that is not good—pity has envy as its opposite—whereas love has hate &
Master Kung
sez “only the complete person can love and hate” or words to that effect—and when we love ourselves—we please ourselves. It is the most high to Love god—but I got a sneaking suspicion—that when it is said “god is inside of
YOU
”—it means
YOU
must bring that God out—
BE
like that God inside…so in the long run—when we pleases our own wee selfies we iz pleasin der Godttt—

that is good “people have died before me…like tapes slipping out of a machine”—That
IS
the way it
IS
—

dear Buk—if you ever resorted to punctuation marks your poems will lose their sur-realism—but your edge would be harder. Your breathing is not like my breathing & I sometimes read you wrong. I.E.—“the slow horse of her body (breath s.m.l.) moves under a sheet of pink (breath s.m.l.) like carnations playing tricks with my better sense…” (breath s.m.l.) & thinks “what hell means that?? I see it reads: “the slow horse of her body moves (breath bukow) under a sheet of pink like carnations” breath bukow—see diff?? Punctuation would have caused your reader to get the proper point. Most of us are sloppy readers Buk & each one is on a different star.

“The slow horse of her body moves under a sheet of pink, like carnations; playing…” etc. It is really good Buk—it gives a sense of slow movement as if the day were hot.

The band is good also “plays as if it were an order for assassination”. my god you can spell!! I cannot. But I do remember to place commas now & then between phrases.

Not with the Sunburnt Fury of a Whitman
—you got the “small men” down pat. Poor lamb—incarnating as a poet in this protestant land of equality. Oh JeEzuz—the woe.

Dear Buk—you are most responsible and to Life—One moment—let me see if there is a root meaning for that word—I never looked it up before as have been too busy living it—Life means “I leave” Riņáckti Ric (Skr.)…we should live so long just to find that out…Yes—it does mean that—our contribution to the universe—what we leave & it means that life leaves—comes & goes & it means that life must leave its electric state & become matter because “life” also has a meaning of “body”—

To return to my meaning—you are being responsible to Life who is also God as well as Love. I think—Buk—that it will get worse & what you leave those like us in the future—will be the accurate record of this flaming hell of america.

Your portrait of the bored refuge into sex of the common dog-males is terrifying—the dog-females & dog-males are horrifying. They live all around me & I have never known such could exist. It must be the heavy batter of cosmic rays out here.

The dog next cabin gets an erection at the sight of a box of candy & has to take it out on her—their lives must go—man—they aint people!! Good cat’likes too—God is a box of white sugar candy!!

He hates me because my experiences are larger than his & he cant own me—He gets the Hen to rush over shouting that So & So’s on th’ phone—I go & it’s her pal & he does a long bit on “an exhibit & I’d like to have your work” but I smell a rat & anyhow I don’t want my work shown with pals of the Barnyard Set so I say “NO” and then I see by their faces—that they all got together “ohhh letzz tell Sheri that Brentie’s gonna have a show & she’ll rush out & get all her work & then Brentie can lose it…”

I am grateful for my good stars. The Holy Ghost whispers in the ear. It flip’d them out that I had not that kind of vanity. These are my fellow country men & women—these are the whites—the catholic whites—fallen lower than whale shit (N.H.P.’s good line)—and yet—my eyes are opening Buk—before I thought all people were beautiful inside. Now I
KNOW
better.

Am back in
office-mobile
—soon I will cook lunch for the Oriental Prince. On the small swedish stove. He will have steamed rice; steamed chinese roast pork; chinese ‘tea cakes’ made of shrimp & pork & beef mixed with chop’d spices & vegetables & mushrooms & water chestnuts & rolled in rice dough & chop’d chinese mustard greens with lop chung (chinese duck sausage) cut up & steamed on top—then apricot pie with whip’d cream.

The l’l bastid eats like a royal king.

Thus I end this letter. I am sending out my good Jupiter rays to you & Jup will make your letters into a book that will swing—Veryl Rosenbaum is right—that’ll be a book right on time. It’s needed out there Buk—I’ll get abt 10 or more copies if it aint too high. These ruddy crudey bloody squares need
YOU
—

all for now & trust all’s well there & here too
        your favorite star gazer

Sheri

[
undated letter from SM to CB in late 1965, apparently accompanying their astrological charts
]

With me you can clearly read—The Ascendent: What I got. The Descendent: What I aint got!

my Scorpio is my desire—to renew/to salvage—my Taurus: I have/I possess/ to earn/to own…See what you think—I’d incline to the Pisces/Virgo—but check—

Otherwise let me know the closest hour/minute/day/month/year of the most important day of yr life—the kind you’d say: “if I’d only have done that” or “if this day had never dawned I’d never be what I am” etc—my own wd be the day I returned to E.P. Easter 1954—from that date I’d be able to sort of see—Scorpio rising wd make me find out everything there is to find out—Scorp being the natural detective of the zodiac—that’s what got E.P. in so much difficulties—

You have a fab chart & you
OWE
it to us to do yr best to get us the vital statistics Buk—then I’ll read it for you—slowly as this typing machine is rough & some days I just study—if you know that most of the dough balls got their stars scattered all over the chart you’d know that you are most unusual—if you were born betw 8-10—you’d be in the natural House of Leo with yr sun in Leo & Leo is the royal vib in the zodiac! I don’t know the correct degree for Jup or Merc but you lined them up with Nept & the Sun—a decent display & good show ol’ boy—

rush
daughter’s
vital statistics
—

yes—it is right to take off & rest when the body says so—we do—try to stop—at least 1 day a month—

tell me what is your
BEST HOUR
through out yr life—after sun down (I was born at 3.a.m. & when ever anything spooky happens to me / it is at 3 a.m.) that cd be a clue—

Ask yr
Uncle in Andernach
. You ask “what is happening” because “the people of the earth are tired of English professors because english profs touch mostly books/ live a plastic life” (art museum hogs/clogs too) E.P. “clog up the works”

O Yeast see yrself as a kind of laxitive trying to work loose the ancient dried up shit of the dough balls clogging up the divine intestinal system of our living god—we are passing from one age to another—the old petrified turds will go & the Way will be unclog’d—work hard at it—
YOU
may inherit the next age—

Yes—
Blaz
—he wrote—bright sound—I ordered
yr book
fr him—to use it to arouse interest with the few now got—who’d live through yr words—they are not going to
LIVE
any other way—

HOW DARE YOU WRITE
CRITICAL ARTICLES
& LONG BOOK REVIEWS
without letting
ME
read them also?

will send this right down & send up daughter’s info immediately…yes will send art & more letter…am rush[ing] this where Andernach? what mean?

S

23. Dec. 65 pobx 1044 pacifica calif

I

didn’t

know

yew

were/are

a real

KroutHeadttttt

Buk!!!!!
        My
FIRST
!!!!!!
                officially—

to yr letter:

It was Gib’s comment that anyone who kept yr letters with profit as the motive showed their true lack of love for the poet—I sent Veryl photostats of the letters I made scrolls of—not to crush them—& some of the rest that were still with me—I
WANT
you to have that book—there are at least 10 to 20 folks that I can get interested—Never cd reach them before—but astrology seems to reach them & with the door open—one can reach them deeper—yr letters wd turn them on—

the exhibit was a hell of a lot of work—
Reid
worked hard also—it got all my work to Ohio…then it was over—the work is still there—in a gallery that refuses to acknowledge my existence & no one there seems capable of returning the work to me without it costing $50. a case!!! I’ll have to go & see what the hell goes on in the square world. I’d never
DO
that again. Reid was great until the exhibit was over & then this “gallery” took over & who don’t know what’s jumpin’ off iz me! I’m so ruddy fed up with these americans Buk…they are grub-mutts—’m gonna turn my back to them—and vanish—

There is some work—I had been framing for that dead-cell gallery of Reid’s but who can make love to a corpse & still be sane? I just stop’d working—but for
YOU
—doll—I’ll hop-to & finish framing some & send them down—you’d be amused by some of them—

…last year—the 2nd worst to hit my little life—it turned me
UP
&
OUT
to the stars—astrology is fascinating—the best in gossip yet—being alone so long—8 hrs a day—seated in the camper—I read in this gloom & chill—only the chap who did
The Children of the Ghetto
—could have invented my past 7 yrs—but I did grow up—and that was a childhood aim—once you see their stars you see—

It is beautifully noble of you—to say that the work that the Gods or Daemons do through this sufferin’ soul—is good nuff to hang up—’ taint my work Buk—it belongs to the world—Jez Chrys’ on t.v. last night—a flic on MikeAngel—they treated him worse or close tohow we iz gittin’ treated—flammm—take fire—these are the experiences of The Immortals!!

On days when even suicide is meaningless—because of the immortal part of us (lousy joke that & rotten luck too) I open the
I Ching
tears pouring—raining on my face & the book—& it says sugar/sugar/sugar & I beam—when the bible aint calling me a whore of babylon—it says—
“if they hate you, know that they hated me before they hated you”
—these books…my pals for 7 now—