#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
I began getting dizzy spells. I could feel them coming. The case would begin to whirl. The spells lasted about a minute. I couldn’t understand it. Each letter was getting heavier and he...
Julio came by with his guitar and… latest song. Julio was famous, he wrote songs a… published books of little drawings… poems.
I took Tanya to Santa Anita. The current sensation was a 16 year old jockey still riding with his 5 pound bug advantage. He was from the east and was riding at Santa Anita for the first...
out of the arm of one love and into the arms of another I have been saved from dying on th… by a lady who smokes pot writes songs and stories
you won’t see them often for wherever the crowd is they are not. those odd ones, not
I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love. It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. “I got married,” she said, ...
Later in the hospital they were dabbing at my knees with pieces of cotton that had been soaked in something. It burned. My elbows burned too. The doctor was bending over me with a nurse...
A sound awakened me. It was not quite daylight. Cecelia was moving around getting dressed. I looked at my watch. “I want to watch the sun come up. I love sunrises!” “I haven’t been able...
“I’ve made it,” she said, “I’ve c… through.” she had on new boots, pa… and a white sweater. “I know what… want now.” she was from Chicago an… had settled in L.A.’s Fairfax dis…
cleaned my place the other day first time in ten years and found 100 rejected poems: fastened them all to a clipboard much bad reading.
I don’t beat the walls with my fis… I just sit but it rushes in a tide of it. the woman in the court behind me h…
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
Jack London drinking his life awa… writing of strange and heroic men. Eugene O’Neill drinking himself o… while writing his dark and poetic works.
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
I feel gypped by dunces as if reality were the property of little men with luck and a headstart, and I sit in the cold