#AmericanWriters
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.
love, he said, gas kiss me off kiss my lips kiss my hair my fingers
they go on writing pumping out poems— young boys and college professors wives who drink wine all afternoon while their husbands work,
think of de vils in hell and stare at a beautiful vase of flowers as the woman in my bedroom
the boys come up the boys climb up the brown pole as the waterheater gurgles in Spanish
often it is the only thing between you and impossibility. no drink,
Mongolian coasts shining in light, listen to the pulse of the sun, the tiger is the same to all of us and high oh so high on the branch
One night I was coming around the corner after sneaking down to the cafeteria for a pack of smokes. And there was a face I knew. It was Tom Moto! The guy I had subbed with under The Sto...
around 2 a.m. in my small room after turning off the poem machine for now
they don’t make it the beautiful die in flame— suicide pills, rat poison, rope, w… ever... they rip their arms off,
Four or five days passed. The phone rang. It was Tammie. “Listen, Hank. You know that little bridge you cross in your car when you drive to my mother’s place?” “Well, right by there the...
each man must realize that it can all disappear very quickly: the cat, the woman, the job, the front tire,
O lord, he said, Japanese women, real women, they have not forgotte… bowing and smiling closing the wounds men have made; but American women will kill you l…
reached up into the top of the clo… and took out a pair of blue pan ti… and showed them to her and asked “are these yours?” and she looked and said,
your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank… be on the watch. there are ways out. there is a light somewhere.