Long walks at night-- that's what good for the soul: peeking into windows watching tired housewives trying to fight off their beer-maddened husbands.   By Charles Bukowski

Sundays too my father got up earlyAnd put his clothes on in the blueback cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.I'd wa

Starting to feel invincible,picked up a new car at the local lot,headed out to the bar to celebrate,had a few drinks,setup as bait by the local pd,pulled out the lot to be decisphored,making a quick t

I went down to the river,I set down on the bank.I tried to think but couldn't,So I jumped in and sank.I came up once and hollered!I came up twice and cried!If that water hadn't a-been so coldI might'

There is a place where the sidewalk endsAnd before the street begins,And there the grass grows soft and white,And there the sun burns crimson bright,And there the moon-bird rests from his flightTo co