Sep 18 2004
Saturday = Bukowski
The post reading party was the same as always, professors and students, bland and dim. Professor Kragmartz got me in the breakfast nook, began asking questions as the groupies slithered about. No I told him, no, well, yes, parts of T.S.Eliot were good. We were too tough on Eliot. Pound, yes, well, we were finding out that Pound was not quite what we thought. No, I couldn't think of any outstanding contemporary American poets, sorry. Concrete poetry? Well, yes, concrete poetry was just like concrete anything else. What, Celine? An old crank with withered testicles. Only one good book, the first one. What? Yes, of course, it's enough. I mean, you haven't written one have you? Why do I pick on Creeley? I don't anymore. Creeley's built a body of work, that's more than most of his critics have done. Yes, I drink, doesn't everybody? How the hell you going to make it otherwise? Women? Oh yes, women, oh yes, of course. You can't write about fireplugs and empty India Ink bottles. Yes, I know the red wheelbarrow in the rain. Look Kragmartz, I don't want you to hog me entirely. I better move around.
- Taken from the book Hot Water Music
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