#1993 #AmericanWriters #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
When I awakened a few hours later, Tanya was not in the bed. It was only 9 am. I found her sitting on the couch drinking out of a pint of whiskey. “I always get up at noon. We’re going ...
my father always said, “early to b… early to rise makes a man healthy,… and wise.” it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our… and we were up at dawn to the smel…
she was sitting in the window of room 1010 at the Chelsea in New York, Janis Joplin’s old room. it was 104 degrees
my friend William is a fortunate m… he lacks the imagination to suffer he kept his first job his first wife can drive a car 50,000 miles
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…
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, ...
he hooked to the body hard took it well and loved to fight had seven in a row and a small fle… over one eye,
she cut my toenails the night befo… and in the morning she said, “I th… just lay here all day.” which meant she wasn’t going to wo… she was at my apartment—which mean…
the problem, of course, isn’t the… it’s the living parts which make up the Dem… the next person you pass on the st… multiply
I was back in L.A. about a week and a half. It was night. The phone rang. It was Cecelia, she was sobbing. “Hank, Bill is dead. You’re the first one I’ve called.” “I’m so glad you came ...
So gramps wrote Joyce a big check and there we were. We rented a little house up on a hill, and then Joyce got this stupid moralistic thing. “We both ought to get jobs,” Joyce said, “to...
The phone rang the next morning. Lydia had gone back to her place. It was Bobby, the kid who lived in the next block and worked in the porno bookstore. “Mindy’s down here. She wants you...
are more beautiful than movie stars and they lounge on the lawn sunbathing
Back in L.A., there was almost a week of peace. Then the phone rang. It was the owner of a Manhattan Beach nightclub, Marty Seavers. I had read there a couple of times before. The club ...
I walked off the job again and the police stopped me for running a red light at Serrano… my mind was rather gone and I stood in a patch of leaves