Thoughts on Witch Piss by Sam Pink

There was this guy who lived in the doorway of an abandoned building near me.
And we’d become friends.

This is my first reading of one of Sam Pink’s novellas, and after reading The Yellow Forklift I knew it would not be the last. I bought this book on impulse directly from Sam, and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. In short, he is shockingly good. A gem of real creativity hiding within a vast artistic wasteland of increasingly preachy sterile garbage.

I’m surely not the only person who has made the observation that Sam Pink’s prose poetry reminds one of Bukowski. Sam’s work to me, so far, stands apart in its importance from the naked unapologetic brutality and filth that makes Bukowski so great. A gritty journey at times, Witch Piss follows a man with a poor sense of self-worth finding meaning in becoming part of a friend group of quirky funny homeless people. Hank proudly vomits up the fried titty and whiskey he had for breakfast and hates everybody, but our protagonist’s story is a more relatable and poignant struggle to just make friends and find meaning in a meaningless life while hating himself. A wistful wish that is desperately sweet, not angry or ugly. It reminds me of the title of one of my favorite and somewhat more lighthearted collections of Bukowski’s poetry, You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense.

The stereotypical homeless person caricature is always afflicted with some kind of schizo madness, easily ignored by default, accepted as part of life, not human, just scenery. Make friends with them? Hang out with them? Miss them? Even talking about such things almost crosses into some kind of unspoken and shameful taboo — the mad are worthy of only our fickle tolerance and sympathy, not our familiarity and affection. Only the mad are friendly with madness. Their material condition and mental “illness” are not the focus here, we do not spend much time lamenting their station. We elect instead to share in their joy, to listen to their voices in situ as they might really be heard. To love them.

Face said, “Speedy, where you finna stay tonight? You my pops, but you done tonight, and I got work, so — “
“Stayin at yer place bussy. Take me’a your place.”
Face said, “Uh uh, fuck that. I’ont need you. You ain’t got no cootie cat.” He gestured by his crotch. “Sorry padna but you ain’t got no split.”

Sam’s encounters with these characters are all the more vivid and vibrant with the careful recording of speech in all of its fucked up and very realistic vernacular. The dialogue is everything to the telling of this story. He has many stories to tell of his time with them, stories that change him and might change you: I encourage you to let him speak to you of their very endearing madness and honest joy.

You can get this book, as well as his excellent visual art, directly from Sam or from your bookseller of choice.

Next: Ketchup