sure,




sure, is a journal devoted to Charles Bukowski. It began as "The Charles Bukowski Newsletter," and the first issue was published in May, 1991. Over the years it has gone through some changes. Originally the thin zine-like journal was put out three time per year but recently the format has changed. It is now much thicker and published annually. With its eclectic mix of photos, posters, poems by Bukowski and about Bukowski, articles about the man and about the man's work, sure, is an excellent resource for Bulowski scholars as well as regular Bukowski fans.



If you would like to find out more about sure, you may contact the editor at:

Edward L. Smith
PO Box 66
Oak View, CA 93022
Here's an excerpt from sure, #10:



Epistle of St. Hank

by David Baker
Feb 1994, Salem, OR


One nite about 600 years ago, or so it seems, I was standing in Linda King's kitchen in L.A. or Hollywood, or wherever it was, watching Charles Bukowski guzzle down the beer that might kill him. He had been sick, and he did not look well. He said the stomach was bad from drinking. The house was full of people, most of whom he didn't know and didn't like. It was a tense moment. A couple of friends and I had cornered him, and we wanted to talk literature. He looked like he wanted to crawl off into a dark, quiet space and die like a wounded animal. We were too young, too self absorbed, to respect that. We wanted to hear immortal words of truth that only he could impart. He really wasn't up to it, but we weren't going to give up easily.

I don't remember now exactly what he said -- something about hating parties, and only doing it for the girls sake (meaning Linda King's) -- but what I do recall clearly is him leaning over the sink like the weariest of the weary, and spitting out a bit of blood-laced snot and bile that was obviously meant to impress us. It worked.

Then I noticed his nose. It was big and red and swollen, like that of some wino Santa from Hell, and it appeared to have had its own little heart attack, the veins busted, every cell congested, ruined. It was the nose of a man that wasn't expected to live more than fifteen days. A nose that said: this body has been abused, this soul is ravaged, and I suffer for them!

That was about 1970, and the occassion was a publication party for a new chapbook of poems by King and Bukowski, called (if memory serves), Your My Sometimes Love Poems. Most of them were minor poets, rank amateurs, literary pretenders and hangers-on, or worse. Our poetry was bad, and we were all yakking and drinking and smoking and waving our egos around like flags on long sticks, and dancing under the spotlights of collective banality. A forgettable scene, but for the presence of one mad demented cribbler of little dogs and banger of typewriters: Saint Hank of Hollywood. He was our prophet; we were his faithful flock.



The excerpt ends here, but the article goes on to review a book, Screams From the Balcony, a volume of Bukowski's letters.

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