what is it about lobsters and crab… those white-pink shells that always make me hungry just looking at them there in the butcher’s display case

I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love. It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. “I got married,” she said, ...

the balance is preserved by the sn… the Santa Monica cliffs; the luck is in walking down Wester… and having the girls in a massage parlor holler at you, “Hello, Swe…

and the subnormal. all through grammar school junior high high school junior college

drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight

We were eating meatballs and spaghetti. My problems were always discussed at dinner time. Dinner time was almost always an unhappy time. I didn’t answer my father’s question. “Henry, an...

my father was a practical man. he had an idea. you see, my son, he said, I can pay for this house in my lif… then it’s mine.

absolutely sesamoid said the skeleton shoving his chalky foot upon my desk, and that was it,

when I was in grammar school my parents were poor and in my lunch bag there was only a peanut butter sandwich.

these things that we support most… have nothing to do with up, and we do with them out of boredom or fear or money or cracked intelligence;

I was sitting with an anarchist from Beverly Hills, Ben Solvnag, who was writing my biography when I heard her footsteps on the court walk. I knew the sound—they were always fast and fr...

here I am in the ground my mouth open and