One of the more unusual things the synaesthesia press ever published was an essay by Charles Bukowski on the state of American poetry.
The piece appeared in 4 Poets, synaesthesia press chapbook #2, and has long since gone out of print.
Bukowski wrote the essay in 1964. I discovered it while working in the Special Collections Department at the University of Arizona. The manuscript was preserved in one of those inexpensive spiral-bound notebooks. It cost all of thirty-nine cents and looked like it had lived a hard life. There were beer stains, doodles, random observations, abandoned ideas, personal notes, and the sort of material most writers never expect anyone else to read. To hold it in my hands was a thrill. For a young publisher and devoted Bukowski reader, it felt like I was given a backstage pass.
Then, right in the middle of it all, was this wonderful essay.
The notebook turned out to be a treasure trove. It also contained the handwritten first draft of The Day It Snowed in L.A., which would not appear in print until more than twenty years later and survived almost unchanged from the version preserved in the notebook. The cover illustration I eventually used for 4 Poets was found there as well. Another essay, “The House of Horrors,” also emerged from those same pages and was included in a small number of special copies.
I can’t adequately describe what it felt like to hold that notebook in my hands. At the time, it was one of the great thrills of my young publishing life. Looking back, I realize it was one of those experiences that can only happen once. For a few hours, I wasn’t reading Bukowski anymore. I was sitting beside him while he worked.
4 Poets was published in an edition of 243 copies, along with 11 special copies containing the additional Bukowski essay “The House of Horrors.” Those special copies were issued in 11 different variant covers, each representing a cover design I had considered for the regular edition. Both editions sold quickly. Every so often a copy surfaces on the secondary market, usually to my surprise. I haven’t had one to sell in years.
What remains is the memory of that notebook and the privilege of bringing a small piece of it into print.
