#AmericanWriters
looking out the window smoking rolled cigarettes drinking Sanka and watching the workers come on in
16 years old during the depression I’d come home drunk and all my clothing— shorts, shirts, stockings—
red hair real she whirled it and she asked “is my ass still on?”
the essence of the belly like a white balloon sacked is disturbing like the running of feet on the stairs
the strong men the muscle men there they sit down at the beach cocoa tans
near the corner table in the cafe middle-aged couple sit. they have finished their
you’ve got to fuck a great many wo… beautiful women and write a few decent love poems. and don’t worry about age and/or freshly-arrived talents.
“Be quiet. Don’t wake Dancy. She’s my daughter. She’s 6 years I had a 6-pack of beer. Tammie put it in the refrigerator and came out with two bottles. “My daughter mustn’t see anything....
you know I sat on the same barstool in Phi… 5 years I drank canned heat and the cheape… I was beaten in alleys by well-fed…
light brown stare that dumb blank marvelous light brown stare I’ll take care of it.
sun-stroked women without men on a Santa Monica Monday; the men are working or in jail or insane;
Vallejo writing about loneliness while starving to death; Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a whore;
There was this place. It stretched over the sea, it was built over the sea. An old place, but with a touch of class. We got a room on the first floor. You could hear the ocean running d...
Phillipe ’s is an old time cafe off Alameda street just a little north and east of the main post office. Phillipe’s opens at 5 a.m.
my mother knocked on my rooming-ho… and came in looked in the dresser drawer: Henry you don’t have any clean stockings?