#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
we are gathered here now to bury her in this poem. she did not marry an unemployed wi… beat her every
one of the first actors to play Ta… Motion Picture Home. he’d been there for years waiting… he spent much of his time running in and out of the wards
In the morning I heard her walkin… It was about 10:30 a.m. I was sic… She shook me. “Listen, I want you… “So what? I’ll screw her too.” “Yeah,” she laughed, “yeah.”
we have everything and we have not… and some men do it in churches and some men do it by tearing butt… in half and some men do it in Palm Spring…
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...
don’t ever get the idea I am a poe… at the racetrack any day half drun… betting quarters, sidewheelers and… but let me tell you, there are som… who go where the money goes, and s…
the words have come and gone, I sit ill. the phone rings, the cats sleep. Linda vacuums. I am waiting to live,
I have been looking at the same lampshade for 5 years and it has gathered
the virus holds the concepts give way like rotten shoelaces toothache and bacon dance on the lawn
The next morning Tammie found a prescription in her purse. “I’ve got to get this filled,” she said. “Look at it.” It was wrinkled and the ink had run. “Well, he tried to get this prescr...
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…
Again I was on a new route. The Stone always put me on hard routes, but now and then, due to the circumstances of things, he was forced to place me on one less murderous. Route 511 was ...
we like to shower afterwards (I like the water hotter than she) and her face is always soft and pe… and she’ll wash me first spread the soap over my balls
the motion of the human heart: strangled over Missouri; sheathed in hot wax in Boston; burned like a potato in Norfolk; lost in the Allegheny Mountains;
The voices of the people were the same, no matter where you carried the mail you heard the same things over and over again. “You’re late, aren’t you?” “Where’s the regular carrier?” “He...