Howington speakin': Right off the bat I want to let you know that there's LOTS & LOTS of graphics on these Bukowski Tributes pages (Yes, there is more than one of these pages because this project has gotten so f-ing huge I had to break it up so your browser wouldn't suffer a nervous breakdown from the pressure of downloading it all at once!) Since your machine has to download all this Buk info I encourage you to go grab yourself a six-pack and crack open one of those bad boys and start drinkin' because it might take awhile for all of this stuff to appear on your computer screen. Now, if some of the graphic boxes end up with a little red "X" in the corner don't panic or kick your computer in the CPU. It just means that that graphic failed to download for some reason, probably due to low bandwidth or the Internet is backed up with rush hour traffic. What you can do is hit your "Reload" button on your toolbar if you got Netscape or hit "Refresh" if you've got Internet Explorer. This action will make the browser download the page again and those red "X"'s should, hopefully, turn into the pictures they're supposed to be. But, my fellow Bukheads, the World Wide Wait is well worth it. I've got shit on here, and on all the other pages, you ain't NEVER seen or read nowhere else, bay-bee. I've had all this shit, whether sent, collected or solicited, growing old in my file cabinet. But now, with the miracle of computers, scanners, the Internet and a knowledge of HTML, I can present the best of it to all you Buk enthusiasts. First off, I've included two Bukowski poems because I published them both -- they saw their first light -- in my old copied off at the self-serve copier at Office Depot on Hulen Street in Fort Worth, Texas, litmag Experiment In Words, which lasted for nine issues from 1990 to 1992. After starting my first litmag, A Bug In My Fries Magazine, back in 1989, and finding out Bukowski's address from an underground friend, I sent a letter to Buk asking him to submit some stuff. To my surprise he did. SPARK and THOSE MORNINGS, two of the four Buk poems I printed in EIW, ended up in his poem collection, The Last Night Of The Earth Poems. Now I know that John Martin, publisher of Black Sparrow Press, gets royally pissed off at unauthorized people, like myself, publishing his writer's stuff without his permission. So these poems may not be up for too long since I'll probably get an e-mail or letter -- with lawsuit threats included -- telling me to take them off this page -- even though other folks have dozens of Buk poems on their Buk pages. Besides, these poems were first published by me and are a great advertisement for Black Sparrow Press' Bukowski books, which I encourage all of you to order and read a.s.a.p because literature don't get no better than this. Until then enjoy Buk's work. All this shit is put up to honor/remember the man we all love. No malice is intended. I'm not 'ripping off' anyone. I'm just being a historian here. After the two Buk poems follows the stuff -- poems, letters, fiction, stories -- intended for my Buk tribute book that never materialized. And don't forget to visit Buk's Grave, Linda King's Page, Buk's letter to me regarding Neeli Cherkovski's failed Buk biography, Howington's Tribute/Bio/Obit to Bukowski and ex-junkie now sober Missouri poet Michael Hoerman's essay on Bukowski.

SPARK (Experiment In Words #4)

I always resented all the years, the hours, the
minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it
actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me
dizzy and a bit crazy -- I couldn't understand the
murdering of my years
yet my fellow workers gave no signs of
agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and
seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as
the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.
the work pounded them to nothingness, they were
scooped-out and thrown away.

I resented each minute, every minute as it was
mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotonous ever-
structure.

I considered suicide.
I drank away my few leisure hours.

I worked for decades.

I lived with the worst of women, they killed what
the job failed to kill.

I knew that I was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become
them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.
it needn't be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it.

I think I did.
I'm glad I did.
what a lucky god damned
thing.

© Linda Lee & Charles Bukowski

those mornings (Experiment In Words #5)

I still remember those New Orleans rats
out on the balcony railings
in the dark of early morning
as I stood waiting my turn at the
crapper.
there were always two or three
big ones
just sitting there -- sometimes they'd
move quickly then
stop and sit there.
I looked at them and they looked at
me.
they showed no fear.

at last the crapper door would open
and out would walk
one of the tenants
and he always looked worse than
the rats
and then he'd be gone
down the walkway
and I'd go into the still-
stinking crapper
with my hangover.

and almost always
when I came out
the rats would be gone.
as soon as it got a little light
they would vanish.

and then
the world would be
mine,
I'd walk down the stairway
and into it
and my low-wage
pitiful
job
while remembering the
rats,
how it was better for them
than for
me.

I walked to work as the sun
came up hot
and the whores slept
like
babies.

© Linda Lee & Charles Bukowski

The next thing I'm gonna show all you beer drinkin' mothers is an unsigned letter I received in April of 1995. There was no return address on the envelope or on the letter itself. But it was cancelled in Redding CA on April 20, 1995. Besides the letter there was, on the back, a short block type poem. With all the books on Bukowski -- Steve Richmond's (Richmond sent me a postcard dated 8-5-95 with this written on it: "Looking forward to my Spinning Off Bukowski coming out of Sun Dog Press's womb around end of this year -- I'm told it will probably be around 240 pages -- and 'a first volume' in that another 200 to 300 pages are being held for a possible second volume -- I could write about Buk for 100 volumes -- I love Buk -- I love writing about Buk -- what a man...what a MAN."), John Thomas's, A.D. Winan's, Neeli Cherkovski's and countless others -- spread out now the poem this mystery person submitted is very appropriate. Here's the letter, followed by the poem: Kid, here I am, sitting around, with everything so fucking miserable I have no idea what to do, if anything, except sit, and sit, and sit, and wait, for what? Then the mail comes, with Penny Dreadful Review #25, and I open, at random upon your smiling face, your picture, your poem, and for the first time in how many days? Kid, I laughed so hard it hurt. So, thanks. (And keep telling the truth, she said)

ALL THE INSTRUMENTS AGREE by unsigned
I'm really looking forward to all the trashy books. Bukowski As I Alone Knew Him. Bukowski, Genius Or Fake? The Etiology Of Bukowski's Art. I Slept With Bukowski (And Lived To Tell About It). Or, Bukowski(TM) now appearing only above the little useless pockets on spotless barmen's jackets in bars at Marina del Rey, where everybody drips honey from their golden pores and nobody ever vomits, drools, lies, or loses. Maybe, with luck, grandchildren in bright hats and colored silks on parade, touting grandfather's ageless and unread name, #1 in the money descended into vague faces plastered everywhere in honor of the brand new products of America, where the past is a broken down whore neatly forgotten, coming in last, buried beneath the cheers, because longshot winners are no more complicated than torn tickets trampled in the grandstand. The pencil snapped at last, the upstairs typewriter finally silent. Oh yes, I can't wait for all the infinite crap to start piling up, now that one last great star is gone, dropped to earth from the faded, milky sky above Los Angeles. It's safe now, jackals, so yip about the dark carcass, prove it was, see ? really nothing. Bukowski, you bastard, you pillar of fire, there is finally only this, you have left me silent, struck drunk with the truth. And I never got to, I never told you how I waited for you with such longing, tense, naked, eager as a virgin gone too far, overripe, hot, nearly spoiled. I couldn't wait any longer, I had to have the aching thrust of each poem, story, book entering wholly into me, hard, slick, guick, pumping strong forever, and making there a swelling hope, a dream, a life. Bukowski, Bukowski, please, don't stop. But what can I say against this final and necessary human ending? On the paper, Mr. Bukowski, across your incredibly white sheets, I loved you so.

The next three poems are my own. The first one appeared in The New York Quarterly #51 a few months before Buk died. The second got published in sure, The Charles Bukowski Newsletter #7 and the third was in Wormwood Review #132. That cover over there is of a fanzine I did about the two things -- Bukowski & serial killers -- I was most interested in in the early 90s. #2 was the last issue. If you're interested in attaining a piece of Do-It-Yourself publishing history then send me $10 cash/check/m.o. (please make checks and money orders out to my name) to: Robert W. Howington, 4405 Bellaire Drive South #220, Fort Worth TX 76109-5103. I'll ship you a copy of both issues and will throw in some extra neat crap to boot. BASK #1 is only 8 pages long but BASK #2 is 50 pages thick. Both issues are Xeroxed and side-stapled. As an interesting sidenote, the scholarly Indian poet Adrian C. Louis, who has a poem in #2, sent Mark Weber, a fine poet who runs Zerx Press, a letter a fews years back stating, "Just received a copy of Howington's Bukowski & Serial Killers. What a fucking amateurish rag. I'm embarrassed I got a poem in it!" I'm sure he never thought I'd see his letter but I did because I got some friends in the small press who watch out for shit like Adrian's. My friend said, "I'm embarrassed he's alive." Payback is a motherfuckin' bitch, ain't it Adrian? You've been outed as a person who bites the hand that feeds him. Stay in the hallways of academia, Adrian. That's obviously where you belong. Being cut down by none other than the brilliant Mr. Louis should be enough for you out there to want to have copies of BASK. Anyway, here's my poems:

GO OUT LIKE A REAL MAN
I hope Bukowski gets his
wish that he dies with
his head face down on
the typewriter keyboard,
a cigarette still burning
between his lips, a half
empty glass of wine on
the desktop and a winning
poem on the sheet.

Hey, man, you deserve it.

BUKOWSKI KEEPS ME COMPANY
I was sitting in the lunch
room drinking a Coke and
eating a turkey and cheese
sandwich.

At the table next to mine
was a woman having an apple
and a bag of microwave pop-
corn for her lunch.

We were the only people in
there.

I was reading Bukowski's
poetry book BURNING IN WATER
DROWNING IN FLAME, Selected
Poems, 1955-1973.

The woman was looking at the
brightly colored photos in a
glossy magazine.

We were both content.

A CRAZY GUY PUT A GUN TO BUKOWSKI'S HEAD ONCE
"Go ahead, kid," Buk
said, "pull the trigger.
I've got a suicide
complex anyways."

"Then why haven't you
murdered yourself?"

"I've been too busy
drinking. Here you want
another beer?"

"No, I get confused
when I drink too much."

"Okay. Well, I wouldn't
want you to be out of
your right mind. That
could be bad."

"I've decided I'm not
going to kill you. I
can see you haven't
suffered enough."

"Jeez, kid, you're so
cruel."

Here's a letter William Packard, editor of TNYQ, wrote to me after Buk died. Buk has said that TNYQ, along with the late Marvin Malone's Wormwood Review, was the two best poetry magazines EVER. That statement probably stems from the fact that Packard and Malone both recognized Bukowski's enormous talent long before anybody else did and were publishing Buk's stuff on a regular basis, the first litmags to do so. Also, Packard sent a copy of a short letter Buk wrote to him just two weeks before he died to Riverside, CA, poet Gary Goude. Goude e-mailed what Buk wrote to Packard, who was in a New York City hospital at the time for a seriously broken leg: "Got your letter and photos from the hospital. Sure, the gods are testing you. You are a Leader and a Creator. Remain in the fight. I can think of no other man as badly needed. Stay. Endure. I dispatch luck and love toward you. sure, buk." Issue 57 of TNYQ, which features Albuquerque poet Todd Moore, is out now. For a copy send $6 checks made out to "The New York Quarterly" to: POB 693, Old Chelsea Station, NYC, NY 10113.

A letter from Joe Horton (in 1994 sometime) and two of his poems are next. Joe lives in Chicago and used to put out a Xeroxed 'zine called Missle Anus. He reported the other day that he throws up from over drinking at least twice a week. My kind of guy. Anyway, here's his letter then his poems follow: About Buk: Ah, what a dark day. But on the bright side (1) he went out fighting (& writing) (2) he lived longer than he should have (what with all the self-abuse). And thanx for the call. Yeah, it is better to hear about something as tragic as this from someone you know (phone call is better than a cold obit catching you by surprise). Another Buk aside: Today I was in a bookstore & I overheard one side of a telephone conversation. The Barnes & Noble employee said (in a weasely voice): "Sir, we have Notes From A Dirty Old Man, Mockingbird Wish Me Luck, Factotum...all in stock. Yes, we have them all in stock." Nothing spikes sales like death.

BARFLY
Bukowski really DID sound like Snagglepuss.
This was not a Mickey Rourke contrivance.

That walk was not ham acting either:
When a man buries himself in booze
for two or three days
and forgets to eat & sleep
that's EXACTLY how he's gonna walk.

I know that walk.
I've walked that walk before
and I'll probably walk it again.

AT THE LIBRARY
I checked out a Charles Bukowski book titled
Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument
Until The Fingers Begin To Bleed A Bit.

An old prune-face
flashed a tentative librarian smile,
stamped "MAR 7 1992" on the inside cover,
and surrendered the book to scruffy old me.

I notice that I am only
the 13th person to check out this book
since November 1, 1981.

I observe that no one even touched this book
in 1983, 1985 or 1991.

I think about this library where
the checkout lines are always long,
the Book Return bin is always overflowing,
and the clean cut kids are always scurrying around,
putting books up on the shelves
and wonder "What the hell are people reading?"

The next thing up is a newspaper article cut from the December 21, 1993, Fort Worth Star-Telegram. The story is about a Charles Bukowski. A Charles Bukowski none of us, fortunately, knew.

In October of 1993, Gary Goude wrote me this, "One of his books, Tales Of Ordinary Madness, was stolen from me by a woman I used to see. She called me recently at 2 a.m. to tell me that she had read the Bukowski book and afterward immediately consulted her bible and prayed for the soul of Buk. I said that was nice and this enraged her and she screamed as loud as she could through the phone calling me a cocksucker, a bastard, an asshole, a selfish fucking pig and then she said in a very calm and matter-of-fact voice that I would pay with my life for fucking her. She also said she hated Bukowski and that he was an evil man and so was I. That was about three weeks ago and I haven't heard from her since. She was the best fuck I ever had." And this is the poem Gary (who works in the same area of L.A. -- Boil Heights -- where Bukowski worked in a dog biscuit factory) wrote after Buk died:

HE GOT THAT LINE DOWN (for Charles Bukowski)
Buk
you lived
the hardest life
of any man I've known
and yet
you got the line down
and your life
was the hardest
purest
poem
I've
ever
read.

Gregory N. Courson puts out, along with Mike Halchin's DRIVER'S SIDE AIRBAG, one of the two best litmags going in America the culturaless today. His TWISTED SAVAGE contains reprinted Bukowski poems because Courson asks John Martin at Black Sparrow Press for permission to run Buk reprints and, Courson reports, Martin lets him. (Martin even waives the normal $25 reprint fee! Cool!). Here's Greg's ode to Buk.

BUKOWSKI,
YOU MAD FUCKER,
IF THERE IS
A HEAVEN

the
bureaucrats,
prophets,
&
9-to-5ers
will have
to learn
to wipe
their asses
with wadded
newspaper on
cold,
hungry
mornings...
feeling like
there's nothing
left to
lose
&
not
a shadow's
chance
of anything
ever being
better

so
i hope you're
smiling,
you magnificent
bastard;
lips glistening
with bile,
mouth full
of
bad teeth