#AmericanWriters
drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight
he’s a runt he snarls and scratches chases cars groans in his sleep and has a perfect star above each…
stuck in the rain on the freeway,… these are the lucky ones, these ar… dutifully employed, most with thei… as possible as they try not to thi… this is our new civilization: as m…
Within a day or two, about 1 pm in the afternoon there was a knock at my door. It was a painter, Monty Riff, or so he informed me. He also told me that I used to get drunk with him when...
To give life you must take life, and as our grief falls flat and ho… upon the billion—blooded sea I pass upon serious inward—breakin… with white—legged, white—bellied r…
then there was the time in New Orleans I was living with a fat woman, Marie, in the French Quarter and I got very sick.
in the men’s room at the track this boy of about 7 or 8 years old came out of a stall
dame some dogs who sleep at night must dream of bones and I remember your bones in flesh
they’re not going to let you sit at a front table at some cafe in Europe in the mid-afternoon sun. you do, somebody’s going to
she came to my place drunk riding a deer up on the front porc… so many women want to save the wor… but can’t keep their own kitchens… but me...
in the afternoon they lean against one another and you can see how much they like the sun.
in the slow Mexican air I watched… and they cut off his ear, and his… no more terror than a rock. driving back the next day we stopp… and watched the golden red and blu…
is the slim tall ear-ringed bedroom damsel dressed in a long gown
I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh,
I was a bum in San Francisco but… to go to a symphony concert along… and the music was good but somethi… audience was not and something about the orchestra