Postoffice – Charles Bukowski

I knew a girl who read Bukowski I knew a girl who read Bukowski. I knew a girl who read. I knew a girl. I knew.  I. I did not know the girl who read Bukowski. A girl who smoked like a fish and drank like a chimney. All the words that litter papers and novelists that litter coffee shops are self conscious.... Continue Reading →

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