#AmericanWriters
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
I read a book about John Dos Pas… the book once radical—communist John ended up in the Hollywood Hi… and reading the Wall Street Journal
when I look back now at the abuse I took from her I feel shame that I was so innocent,
the illusion is that you are simpl… reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem.
too much too little too fat too thin or nobody. laughter or
you haven’t lived until you’ve been in a flophouse with nothing but one light bulb
We are like roses that have never… bloom when we should have bloomed… it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
I can’t have it and you can’t have it and we won’t get it so don’t bet on it
I had just won $115 from the heads… was naked upon my bed listening to an opera by one of th… and had just gotten rid of a very… when there was a knock upon the wo…
I’ve come by, she says, to tell yo… that this is it. I’m not kidding,… over. this is it. I sit on the couch watching her ar… her long red hair before my bedroo…
I can remember starving in a small room in a strange city shades pulled down, listening to classical music I was young I was so young it hur…
they talk down through the centuries to us, and this we need more and more, the statues and paintings in midnight age
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…
