#1973 #AmericanWriters #AtTerrorStreetAndAgonyWay #BurningInWaterDrowningInFlame
I sat in the airport and waited. You never knew about photos. You could never tell. I was nervous. I felt like vomiting. I lit a cigarette and gagged. Why did I do these things? I didn’...
in the Valkerie Mountains among the strutting peacocks I found a flower as large as my head
he comes out at 7:30 a.m. every da… with 3 peanut butter sandwiches, a… there’s one can of beer which he floats in the baitbucket. he fishes for hours with a small t…
blue fish, the blue night, a blue… everything is blue. and my cats are blue: blue fur, bl… blue whiskers, blue eyes. my bed lamp shines
the bulls are grand as the side of… and although they kill them for th… it is the bull that burns the fire… and although there are cowardly bu… there are cowardly matadors and co…
Tammie came by that night. She appeared to be high on uppers. “I want some champagne,” she said. Then the phone rang. It was Lydia. “I just wondered how you were doing. ...” “You know D...
she writes continually like a long nozzle spraying the air,
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…
listen, he said, you ever seen a b… bucket? no, I told him. well, what happens is that now and… will climb up on top of the others
Frank liked airplanes. He lent me all his pulp magazines about World War 1. The best was Flying Aces. The dog-fights were great, the Spads and the Fokkers mixing it. I read all the stor...
At 3:30 a.m. my twelve hours were… I set the alarm so that I would b… “What happened, Hank? We thought… “I’m quitting.” “Quitting?” “Yes, you can’t blame a man for wa…
Shirley came to town with a broken… and met the Chicano who smoked long slim cigars and they got a place together on Beacon street
he buys 5 cars a month, details th… them out, then resells them at a profit of one or… he has a nice Jewish wife and he t… bangs her until the walls shake.
“You ought to try to be like Abe Mortenson,” said my mother, “he gets straight A’s. Why can’t you ever get any A’s?” “Henry is dead on his ass,” said my father. “Sometimes I can’t belie...
3 small boys run toward me blowing whistles and they scream you’re under arrest! you’re drunk!