#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
there are beasts in the salt shake… and airdromes in the coffeepot. my mother’s hand is in the bag dra… and from the backs of spoons come the cries of tiny tortured animals…
red summers and black satin charcoal and blood ringing the sheets while snails are stepped on and moths go batty
my mother, father and I walked to the market once a week for our government relief food: cans of beans, cans of
red face Texas and age he’s at an L.A. racetrack
I blacked out after that. I guess I had consumed more whiskey than I thought. I don’t remember arriving at Nicole’s. I awakened in the morning with my back to somebody in a strange bed....
An old man asked me for a cigarett… and I carefully dealt out two. Been lookin’ for job. Gonna stand in the sun and smoke.” He was close to rags and rage
my friend is worried about dying he lives in Frisco I live in L.A. he goes to the gym and works with the iron and hits
this man used to be an interesting writer, he was able to say brisk and refreshing things. at the time
around 2 a.m. in my small room after turning off the poem machine for now
I was sitting with an anarchist from Beverly Hills, Ben Solvnag, who was writing my biography when I heard her footsteps on the court walk. I knew the sound—they were always fast and fr...
the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break
I had been sleeping on a terrible mattress with the springs sticking into me for several years. That afternoon when I awakened I pulled the mattress off the bed, dragged it outside, and...
Some say we should keep personal r… poem, stay abstract, and there is some r… but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don’t keep…
The track had moved down the coast a hundred miles or so. I kept paying the rent on my apartment in town, got in my car and drove down. Once or twice a week I would drive back to the ap...
the dead can sleep they don’t get up and rage they don’t have a wife. her white face like a flower in a closed