as the poems go into the thousands… realize that you’ve created very little. it comes down to the rain, the sun… the traffic, the nights and the da…

It’s never quite right, he said, t… the way the music sounds, the way… written. It’s never quite right, he said, a… taught, all the loves we chase, al…

sway with me, everything sad— madmen in stone houses without doors, lepers steaming love and song frogs trying to figure

I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.

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

I still get letters in the mail, m… men in tiny rooms with factory job… living with whores or no woman at… booze and madness. Most of their letters are on lined…

was a truly amazing man he pretended to be rich even though we lived on beans and… when we sat down to eat, he said,

The flies are angry bits of life; why are they so angry? it seems they want more, it seems almost as if they are angry

the final curtain on one of the lo… musicals ever, some people claim t… seen it over one hundred times. I saw it on the tv news, that fina… flowers, cheers, tears, a thundero…

here I am in the ground my mouth open and

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.

Bach, I said, he had 20 children. he played the horses during the da… he f—ed at night and drank in the mornings. he wrote music in between.

too much too little too fat too thin or nobody. laughter or

Sunday, I am eating a grapefruit, church is over at the… Orthadox to the west. she is dark

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…