Tag Archives: Charles Bukowski

Burning the Evidence poems by Todd Cirillo available to order now!

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Todd Cirillo’s book Burning the Evidence by Epic Rites Press is filled with snapshot observations from his Polaroid eye for detail, thieves’ ear for dialogue, and optimistic attempts at love and affection in all situations. Cirillo accomplishes a rare feat; he makes poetry relatable and accessible to every person. In these poems, he lays his heart bare on the bar, sometimes stupidly, other times sacrificially, but always sincerely. Some poems are punches to the gut, others are chocolates on the pillow or the last glimpse of red taillights fading away. Despite the disasters in life and love, Cirillo finds beauty “forever shining down on the whole filthy set up” and after reading this book, you will too.

You can order the book at http://www.epicrites.org/pre-order.html or http://www.epicrites.org

Dear friends: I would love to send each of you a copy with all my love, however, that would be unfair to the publisher, Epic Rites Press, who spent much time and money to put this collection into the world. So, even though the book is not free, my love is, especially if you support Epic Rites Press and this poet by purchasing a copy or ten (they make incredible gifts!) At an affordable $10, this a happy hour deal not to be missed. Cheers!

“Like the great Bill Gainer, Todd Cirillo says more in a few words than most of us can say in volumes. This book is full of love, heartbreak, music and the occasional watering hole. Cirillo doesn’t just burn the evidence, he lights up the night sky with it, baring his heart, like a neon highway sign, beating 24/7–with words.” –John Dorsey, Tombstone Factory

“Language chiseled onto the page and wholly accessible. A poet of unmistakable voice–tough but capable of tenderness…” –Wayne F. Burke, DICKHEAD

“You don’t have to look far. Just throw a dart at the map, you’ll find a little piece of his heart – broken, a girl burning his number in an ashtray, and a beer soaked napkin bleeding a two word not – You Bastard…It’s always a good place for Cirillo to start, that’s why I love this guy – and his poems.” –Bill Gainer, Lipstick and Bullet Holes

 

 

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Filed under break up, Drinking, lost love, Poetry, Publishing, Small Press, The Writer's Life, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing

Todd Interviews poet Neeli Cherkovski in New Orleans

Hello from the Crescent City.  In expanding my creative avenues, or just plain getting kicked out of some, I have been invited to write for an incredible magazine in New Orleans called the NOLA Defender, http://www.noladefender.com and this is the first of my efforts.  A big thank you and tip of the glass to Neeli Cherkovski for his generosity in playing along and being a top notch poet, interview and pal.  Please feel free to comment on the article, and check out nola defender, here is the link:  Good times, Todd

http://www.noladefender.com/content/speaking-neeli

SPEAKING NEELI

Poet Neeli Cherkovski Talks Bukowski, LouJon and the Classics

by Todd Cirillo


Cherkovski reads

Bukowski & Cherkovski, 1989 (Chris Felver)

Poet Neeli Cherkovski has spent time with Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Charles Bukowski. Recently, he spent some time with local writer Todd Cirillo, while visiting New Orleans.

The poet Neeli Cherkovski was in New Orleans from his home in San Francisco, for a reading at the 17 Poets series at the Gold Mine Saloon, as well as a lecture at the Historic New Orleans Collection’s new exhibit. HNOC’s installation at the Williams Research Center celebrates New Orleans’ own LouJon Press.

For the uninitiated, LouJon Press was a famous small press by Jon and Gypsy Lou Webb that operated out of their home on Rue Royal in the French Quarter in the early 1960‘s. The pair published four issues of literary history with The Outsider magazine including; Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller, William S. Burroughs and Charles Bukowski, among others.  The quality of the work that the Webb’s produced separated them from other mimeographed magazines of the day.

Eventually publishing Bukowski’s first two books It Catches My Heart in Its Hands and Crucifix in a Death-Hand, which Cherkovski says “are awesome productions, fine paper, beautiful print and their magazine, “The Outsider,” was exciting, filled with the “new.”  Their “Bukowski Outsider of the Year issue” of 1962 was particularly great. John and Gypsy Lou Webb of the Loujon Press were among the best of the small publishers or “little magazine” editors.  Their pioneering work on letterpress magazines and books is so inspiring, especially from this digital age.”

Throughout the weekend we discussed Cherkovski’s feelings on poetic inspiration, his friendship with Bukowski and hope for the medium.

Charles Bukowski first came to New Orleans in 1942 and then again in 1965 to write poems for “Crucifix in A Deathhand” and meet with the Webbs.  Bukowski went on to write poems, such as “Young In New Orleans”, short stories and his novel Factotum about his time in the Crescent City.

“I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write,” Bukowski said of his time in New Orleans. “But starvation, unfortunately, didn’t improve art. It only hindered it. A man’s soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax.”

Cherkovski said Bukowski, “loved New Orleans and loved the Webbs, but was uncomfortable out of Los Angeles and its familiar ground.”  Cherkovski took home the “kindness of many folks” in New Orleans with him, even if the humidity was a bit much.

Another poet introduced Cherkovski to Charles Bukowski as a poet in Los Angeles, whose chapbook, FLOWER, FIST, AND BESTIAL WAIL was out, worked at the post office and spent his free-time at the typewriter or the race track.

“When I met Neeli he was 16 and I was Bukowski,” Bukowski said.

I asked why he connected with Bukowski.

“Ah, Bukowski. He was there. He was available. And he was willing to give the time to a younger, unpublished poet. It’s that simple. We had so many wild escapades in the “grave” basin of Southern California,” including co-editing the Los Angeles zine Laugh Literary and Man the Humping Guns.

“I think he saw my potential, felt it, recognized it and we shared a sardonic view of our fellow man,” he continued. “We were both humorous and loved to gossip.”  There was an element of “You know, showmanship, trading barbs, putting down almost everyone we knew. . . it was fun.”

Cherkovski went further, saying, “In reality he was a very refined man, a middle class demon sat in his skull and he saw the world through the lens of mid-American values.  You work hard to do what you do, you make your own way.”

Though they remained close for the remainder of Bukowski’s life, Cherkovski said the friendship was strained after he wrote Bukowski’s biography.

“Well, it ruined things,” Cherkovski said. “He was always a difficult friend, and I suppose he just found it easier to push me away once the book came out.  Later, after his death, Linda Bukowski (his wife) told me, ‘You were closest to him after me.’”

Over the course of the visit we go from bars to breakfast to fast goodbyes, talking about Bonnie and Clyde, the humidity, gossip, as Cherkovski accents his talk with “oh that’s great!”, “right man” and many “wow”’s.  He is a man at once wholly engaged in the conversation and one who can detach instantly to write a poem into his notebook with an old fashioned ink pen.  As he did while we were getting a drink at Cafe Beignet.  I wonder where he goes when inspiration is not with him.

“I go to the poets, reading their work, delving into their images, swimming in the sea and ink of their words.  When I write I’m aware of being part of a vast chorus stretching back in time.”

Cherkovski is becoming one of the old masters in status and appearance. With twelve books of poetry, including: From the Canyon Outward, Elegy for Bob Kaufman and Animal; two acclaimed biographies, Bukowski: A Life and Ferlinghetti: A Biography; Whitman’s Wild Children (a collection of critical memoirs), and a PEN Oakland/Josephine Miles Literary Award for his book Leaning Against Time. He has been publishing since the 1970‘s and his works are translated into many languages. He is asked to read throughout the world, and in fact he is preparing to return to Italy for a reading tour in two weeks, and his beard grown long, turned grey and unruly.  He would not be out of place wearing a toga in ancient Athens, with those he draws inspiration from. Poetry first came to him through the classics: Homer, Virgil, Dante, Poe, Rimbaud and now he gets a kick out of having “the poems of Walt (Whitman) and Emily (Dickinson) on my I-Phone; wonder of wonders”.

These days, people post anything they write online and call it poetry, I say, can anyone be a poet and if so does the poet have any responsibility to say, an audience, the world, the poem?

“Everyone has a touch of the poet, a bit of poetic blood running through their veins,” he said. “The poet has only the responsibility to be true to his or her own words, own voice but must treat their own creation kindly, a lesson I am still learning.”

I ask him, if everyone is just being true to his/her words, then what is the purpose of the poem.

“Poetry, the art and craft, is one of the ways to express oneself and is a root to some truths, or what look like truths, for those who write it.  In poetry I see all the deities, good and evil, dancing, singing, brooding, loving, hating, boasting, living in humility, all of that.”

Regarding his own poetry, Cherkovski says, “I write out of a field that Dante and Blake laid before me, a literary field that some might say is a bit highbrow.  Also, I’m a lyrical poet, so folks say, and can be obscure at times, even when I don’t want to be, I just follow the muse and am driven to archaic words and big ones, as well.”

Cherkovksi does a magnificent job at the lecture reading poems of his own and his friend Bukowski, who he imitates expertly, especially when retelling the way Bukowski would explain that his first short story was about the World War I flying ace Baron von Richthofen, which Bukowski would say in a slow Humphrey Bogart-cool drawl, the entire room laughs out loud.

Cherkovski appears genuinely grateful to everyone who speaks with him and appreciates the audience and their interest. He networks and introduces people he thinks should know each other. He will laugh when telling stories of the literary giants he has known and grow sad when telling of their passing.  They are emotions of an artist who was invited to drink in the late nights with those most of us just read about and now is assuming his rightful place at the table of American literature.  He calls poetry “a lucky charm which I have held onto for more than fifty five years, making me an old-timer.”

My last question is about the future of poetry. He says, “Of course, one hopes that an “ordinary savage” like Rimbaud will appear on the scene. That’d be nice.”

We say goodbye on Chartres Street in the late golden afternoon; he to a dinner and I to a bar with outdoor seating thinking, yes indeed, some savagery would be nice again.

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BUK rhymes with PUKE

Don't Try

“A poem is often something that is only necessary toward one man–the writer.  It’s often a perfect form of selfishness.  Let’s not credit ourselves too much.  Garage mechanics are more human than we are.”  –Bukowski

Happy Birthday Bukowski!  You old fuck.  It is no secret that us here at Six Ft. Swells Press wave the Bukowski flag proudly.  What can we say?  We love the old, ugly bastard, he was a good duker, as he’d say.  Those of us here, had connected with Buk separately at different times and very different places in life but when we finally found one another under the neons, we were already halfway there in friendship as soon as the first of us threw out a quote from Love is a Dog from Hell or Women.  It was immediate recognition that we were in the presence of someone true, someone who understood.   The booze has flowed freely ever since and we are all the better for it.

There have been years of laughter and lewdness, years of blood, stitches in the morning, broken parts at midnight and car titles lost at bars.  We have had marriages (one that lasted), love affairs, lost loves; loves we thought were lost but found again in the strangest places, childbirths (hell even the mighty Bukowski had a daughter), tremendous arguments and even better make ups, travels across the country and quiet evenings at home just sitting on the couch with a bottle between us.  But always a Bukowski book never far out of reach.  We always return to you Buk for good or ill.  All of your pain, wickedness, clarity, grossness, self-confidence, honesty, bravado and lust.  And why?  The Pabst Blue Ribbon tells me because you make us believe we can do it, or you cut the shit and tell us to hang it up.  Either way, we listen.  and perhaps that’s the beauty in it all.  A voice that makes us listen.  Perhaps that’s what an artist should strive for.

So, in honor of your birthday Charles, the three masted ship that is Six Ft. Swells raise a glass to you from New Orleans, Louisiana, Nevada City, California and Portland, Oregon.  Who knows, one of us may get in a fight or get laid tonight….now that’s a tribute.

Don’t Try,

Six Ft. Swells Press, memorial department

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Filed under Drinking, Poetry, Publishing, Small Press, The Writer's Life, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing