#AmericanWriters
To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine— just a lightbulb
when I look back now at the abuse I took from her I feel shame that I was so innocent,
lonely as a dry and used orchard spread over the earth for use and surrender. shot down like an ex—pug selling dailies on the corner.
it sits outside my window now like and old woman going to market… it sits and watches me, it sweats nevously through wire and fog and dog—bark
the mockingbird had been following… all summer mocking mocking mocking teasing and cocksure; the cat crawled under rockers on p…
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…
a woman, a tire that’s flat, a disease, a desire: fears in front of you, fears that hold so still
I am in this low—slung sports car painted a deep, rich yellow driving under an Italian sun. I have a British accent. I’m wearing dark shades
here they come these guys grey truck radio playing they are in a hurry
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.
she reads to me from the New York… which I don’t buy, don’t know how they get in here, but it’s something about the Mafia one of the heads of the Mafia
we are always asked to understand the other person’s viewpoint no matter how out—dated
having the low down blues and goin… into a restraunt to eat. you sit at a table. the waitress smiles at you. she’s dumpy. her ass is too big.
I awaken about noon and go out to… in my old torn bathrobe. I’m hung over hair down in my eyes barefoot
starving there, sitting around the… and at night walking the streets f… hours, the moonlight always seemed fake to me, maybe it was,
