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Charles Bukowski - Interview By A Guggenheim Recipient
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this South American up here on a Gugg 
walked in with his whore 
and she sat on the edge of my bed and 
crossed her fine legs 
and I kept looking at her legs 
and he pulled at his stringy necktie 
and I had a hangover 
and he asked me 
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE AMERICAN 
POETS? 
and I told him I didn’t think very much 
of the American poets 
and then he went on to ask some other 
very dull questions 
(as his whore’s legs layed along the side of 
my brain) like 
WELL? YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING 
BUT IF YOU WERE TEACHING A CLASS AND ONE OF THE 
STUDENTS ASKED YOU WHICH AMERICAN POETS 
THEY SHOULD READ 
WHAT WOULD YOU TELL THEM? 
she crossed her legs as I watched and I thought 
I could knock him out with one punch 
rape her in 4 minutes 
catch a train for L.A. 
get off in Arizona and walk off into the desert 
and I couldn’t tell him that I would never teach 
a class 
that along with not liking American poetry 
that I didn’t like American classes either 
or the job that they would expect me to 
do, 
so I said 
Whitman, T.S. Eliot, D.H. Lawrence’ poems about 
reptiles and beasts, Auden. and then I 
realized that Whitman was the only true American, 
that Eliot was not an American somehow and the 
others certainly not, and 
he knew it too 
he knew that I had fucked up 
but I made no apologies 
thought some more about rape 
I almost loved the woman but I knew that when she walked out 
that I would never see her again 
and we shook hands and the Gugg said 
he’d send me the article when it came out 
but I knew that he didn’t have an article 
and he knew it too 
and then he said 
I will send you some of my poems translated into 
English 
and I said fine 
and I watched them walk out of the place 
I watched her highheels clack down the tall 
green steps 
and then both of them were gone 
but I kept remembering her dress sliding all over her 
like a second skin 
and I was wild with mourning and love and sadness 
and being a fool unable to 
communicate 
anything 
and I walked in and finished that beer 
cracked another 
put on my ragged king’s coat 
and walked out into the New Orleans street 
and that very night 
I sat with my friends and acted vile and 
the ass 
much mouth and villainy 
and cruelness 
and they never 
knew why.
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