#AmericanWriters
here comes the fishhead singing here comes the baked potato in dra… here comes nothing to do all day l… here comes another night of no sle… here comes the phone wringing the…
a girlfriend came in built me a bed scrubbed and waxed the kitchen flo… scrubbed the walls vacuumed
if I suffer at this typewriter think how I’d feel among the lettuce— pickers of Salinas?
by God, I don’t know what to do. they’re so nice to have around. they have a way of playing with the balls
I was always a natural slob I liked to lay upon the bed in undershirt (stained, of course) (and with cigarette holes)
I see you drinking at a fountain w… blue hands, no, your hands are not… they are small, and the fountain i… where you wrote me that last lette… I answered and never heard from yo…
yes, they begin out in a willow, I… the starch mountains begin out in… and keep right on going without re… pumas and nectarines somehow these mountains are like
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…
I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train
at high noon at a small college near the beach sober the sweat running down my arms a spot of sweat on the table
Long walks at night— that’s what good for the soul: peeking into windows watching tired housewives trying to fight off
waiting for death like a cat that will jump on the bed I am so very sorry for
the illusion is that you are simpl… reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem.
at one stage in my life I met a man who claimed to have visited Pound at St. Elizabeths. then I met a woman who not only claimed to have visited
“you know,” she said, “you were at the bar so you didn’t see but I danced with this guy. we danced and we danced close.
