#AmericanWriters
I’m out of matches. the springs in my couch are broken. they stole my footlocker. they stole my oil painting of
the old folks play a game in the park overlooking the sea shoving markers across cement with wooden sticks. four play, two on each side
half drunk I left her place her warm blankets and I was hungover didn’t even know what town
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
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...
I am hung by a nail the sun melts my heart I am cousin to the snake
there he is: not too many hangovers not too many fights with women not too many flat tires never a thought of suicide
no we can’t we can’t win it I’ve decided we can’t win it just for a while we thought we cou… but that was just for a while
what’s bad about all this is watching people drinking coffee and waiting. I would
Van Gogh cut off his ear gave it to a prostitute who flung it away in extreme
the waste of words continues with a stunning persistence as the waiter runs by carrying the… tray
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...
we fought for 17 days inside that… thrusting and counter-thrusting but finally she got away and I walked outside and spit
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.
Some say we should keep personal r… poem, stay abstract, and there is some r… but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don’t keep…