#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
I was 50 years old and hadn’t been to bed with a woman for four years. I had no women friends. I looked at them as I passed them on the streets or wherever I saw them, but I looked at t...
now the territory is taken, the sacrificial lambs have been sl… as history is scratched again on t… as the bankers scurry to survive, as the young girls paint their hun…
My father always ran the neighborhood kids away from our house. I was told not to play with them but I walked down the street and watched them anyhow. “Hey, Heinie!” they yelled, “Why d...
welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.
I stop my car at the signal I see her walking past the graveya… as she walks past the iron fence I can see through the iron fence and I see the headstones
cigarettes wetted with beer from the night before you light one gag open the door for air
re-reading some of Fante’s The Wine of Youth in bed this mid-afternoon my big cat
sitting on a 2nd-floor porch at 1:… while looking out over the city. could be worse. we needn’t accomplish great things…
he drank wine all night of the 28th, and he kept thinking of her: the way she walked and talked and… the way she told him things that s… but were not, and he knew the colo…
big sloppy wounded dog hit by a car and walking toward the curbing making enormous sounds
I took Tanya to the airport the next afternoon. We had a drink in the same bar. The high-yellow wasn’t around; all that leg was with somebody else. “No. You love sex and there’s nothing...
On Thanksgiving Iris prepared the turkey and put it in the oven. Bobby and Valerie came over for a few drinks but they didn’t stay. It was refreshing. Iris had on another dress, just as...
Somehow the money slipped away after that and soon I left the track and sat around in my apartment waiting for the 90 days’ leave to run out. My nerves were raw from the drinking and th...
“your poems about the girls will s… 50 years from now when the girls a… my editor phones me. dear editor: the girls appear to be gone
we take what we can see— the engines driving us mad, lovers finally hating; this fish in the market staring upward into our minds;