#AmericanWriters
when Whitman wrote, “I sing the b… I know what he meant I know what he wanted:
I even hear the mountains the way they laugh up and down their blue sides and down in the water the fish cry
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
Style is the answer to everything. A fresh way to approach a dull or… To do a dull thing with style is p… To do a dangerous thing with style… Bullfighting can be an art
a symphony orchestra. there is a thunderstorm, they are playing a Wagner overture and the people leave their seats u… and run inside to the pavilion
I was always a natural slob I liked to lay upon the bed in undershirt (stained, of course) (and with cigarette holes)
I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading, she said “yes”, “yes?” I asked. "she`s young and pretty",
I reached up into the top of the c… and took out a pair of blue pantie… and showed them to her and asked “are these yours?”
if I suffer at this typewriter think how I’d feel among the lettuce— pickers of Salinas?
once we were young at this machine. . . drinking
naked along the side of the house, 8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil over my body, Jesus, have I come to this? I once battled in dark alleys for…
out of the arm of one love and into the arms of another I have been saved from dying on th… by a lady who smokes pot writes songs and stories
the critics now have me drinking champagne and driving a BMW and also married to a socialite from
waiting for death like a cat that will jump on the bed I am so very sorry for
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.