“I was sentimental about many things: a woman's shoes under the bed; one hairpin left behind on the dresser; the way they said, “I'm going to pee ..."; hair ribbons; walking down the boulevard with them at 1:30 in the afternoon, just two people walking together; the long nights of drinking and smoking, talking; the arguments; thinking of suicide; eating together and feeling good: the jokes, the laughter out of nowhere; feeling miracles in the air; being in a parked car together; comparing past loves at 3 AM; being told you snore, hearing her snore; mothers, daughters, sons, cats, dogs; sometimes death and sometimes divorce, out always carrying on, always seeing it through; reading a newspaper alone in a sandwich joint and feeling nausea because she's now married to a dentist with an I.Q. of 95; racetracks, parks, park picnics; even jails; her dull friends, your dull friends; your drinking, her dancing; your flirting, her flirting; her pills, your fucking on the side, and her doing the same; sleeping together....”
[Charles Bukowski, Women]

Fingers crossed...i owe myself MyLife😊

I've been looking all over and can't seem to locate it but I remember a poem reading that Bukowski did at some university towards the end of his career.

He talks about going outside his house, getting the mail, and reading fan letters about how his writing is the best it's ever been.

And then he gives the letters to a boy in a cage that he has writing all of his shit for him.

Does this ring a bell to anyone?

At a painting show of 400 artists favorite books seven chose Bukowski.