Bukowski used to write at night.
In his room. On a computer.
He would go to the track, during the day.
He would drive his BMW. Valet parking would park it.
The old Volks died on the freeway. He tipped the valet parker.
The ticket sellers at the windows knew him. The Racing Form vendors.
The bartenders, the working girls, the pimps. Cashiered postal workers.
People laid off at the Dead Letter Office. People with post-traumatic stress.
Fellow scriveners. John Martin gave him an allowance to quit his job,
stay home, and write Post Office. The rest is history.
I wrote WORKINGMAN'S BLUES NO. 2 and WORK.
They were like Factotum and Women. Or like Hollywood and Pulp.
Ham on Rye. High school, high school, college too. Go to church on Sunday
learn the Golden Rule. I called WORKINGMAN'S BLUES NO. 2 and WORK
Househusband: Thoreau and Kierkegaard at the Writers Conference.
I sent them to Melville House Publishing. They grew twice that big.
Then they grew four times that size. If you count Held-in-Abeyance (HIA).
They morphed into On Assignment: Four Months of Daily Typewriting.