Nunca escrevo aqui nada que não seja meu. Ou quase nunca. Hoje é um dia diferente. Uma noite diferente na verdade. Não posso deixar que certas linhas passem em branco. Bukowski, claro. O gênio por trás do bêbado. O poeta verdadeiro, coisa cada vez mais rara quando não absolutamente extinta.

" The gods were good to me. They kept me under. They made me live the life. It was very difficult for me to walk out of a slaughterhouse or a factory and come home to write a poem I didn't quite mean. And many people write poems they don't quite mean. I do too, sometimes. The hard life created the hard line and by hard line I mean the true line devoid of ornament.

Those who are best at poetry are those who have to write it and will continue to write it no matter the result. For, if they don't, something else will happen: murder, suicide, madness, god knows what. The act of writing the Word down is the act of miracle, the saving grace, the luck, the music, the going-on. It clears the space, it defines the crap, it saves your ass and some other people's asses along with it. If fame somehow comes through all this, you must ignore it, you must continue to write as if the next line were your first line.

And although we must ignore praise, there are times when we might allow ourselves to feel good for just a bit. I received a letter from a prisoner in a jail in Australia who worte me: your books are the only books that pass from cell to cell.

But, I've talked enough about writing poetry here; there is still time tonight to write some. A few beers, a cigar, classical music on the radio. See you later."

- Charles Bukowski