#AmericanWriters
beheaded in the middle of the night scratching my sides I am covered with bites kick my white legs out of the shee…
I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love. It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. “I got married,” she said, ...
Born like this Into this As the chalk faces smile As Mrs. Death laughs As the elevators break
Making love in the sun, in the mor… in a hotel room above the alley where poor men poke for bottles; making love in the sun
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…
I reached up into the top of the c… and took out a pair of blue pantie… and showed them to her and asked “are these yours?”
a poem is a city filled with stree… filled with saints, heroes, beggar… filled with banality and booze, filled with rain and thunder and p… drought, a poem is a city at war,
the boy walks with his muddy feet… soul talking about recitals, virtuosi,… the lesser known novels of Dostoev… talking about how he corrected a w…
I’m out of matches. the springs in my couch are broken. they stole my footlocker. they stole my oil painting of
That night I gave another bad reading. I didn’t care. They didn’t care. If John Cage could get one thousand dollars for eating an apple, I’d accept $500 plus air fare for being a lemon....
the shit shits yes, it’s dark in here. can’t open the door. can’t open the jam lid. can’t find a pair of socks that ma…
when you’re young a pair of female high-heeled shoes just sitting
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...
in the men’s room at the track this boy of about 7 or 8 years old came out of a stall
I awaken about noon and go out to… in my old torn bathrobe. I’m hung over hair down in my eyes barefoot