#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
I keep thinking it will be outside now waiting for me blue front bumper twisted
I remember the Model-T. Sitting high, the running boards seemed friendly, and on cold days, in the mornings, and often at other times, my father had to fit the hand-crank into the front...
welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.
Office of Postmaster—United States Post Office—January 1, 1970 The attention of all employees is directed to the Code of Ethics for postal employees as set forth in Part 742 of the Post...
I have just spent one—hour—and—a—h… handicapping tomorrow’s card. when am I going to get at the poem… well, they’ll just have to wait
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...
you haven’t lived until you’ve been in a flophouse with nothing but one light bulb
the words have come and gone, I sit ill. the phone rings, the cats sleep. Linda vacuums. I am waiting to live,
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
Wagner wasn’t done with us. I was standing in the yard during gym class when he walked up to me. “I’m putting you on garbage detail until further notice.” The kids had to work off their...
the sun slides down through the sh… have a pair of black shoes and a p… brown shoes. can hardly remember the girls of m… there is numb blood pulsing throug…
has been going on for some time. there is this young waitress where… at the racetrack. how are you doing today?” she asks… winning pretty good,” I reply.
you know what Li Po said when ask… Artist or Rich? I’d rather be Rich,” he replied,… sitting on the doorsteps of the Rich.”
the goldfish sing all night with g… and the whores go down with the st… the whores go down with the stars I’m sorry, sir, we close at 4:30, besides yr mother’s neck is dirty,
I began receiving letters from a girl in New York City. Her name was Mindy. She had run across a couple of my books, but the best thing about her letters was that she seldom mentioned w...