#AmericanWriters
the illusion is that you are simpl… reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem.
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.
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.
I went with two ladies down to Venice to look for antique furniture. I parked in back of the store and went in with them.
the droll noon where squadrons of worms creep up like stripteasers to be raped by blackbirds. I go outside
light brown stare that dumb blank marvelous light brown stare I’ll take care of it.
it’s the same as before or the other time or the time before that. here’s a cock and here’s a cunt
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…
the problem, of course, isn’t the… it’s the living parts which make up the Dem… the next person you pass on the st… multiply
sitting with the professors we talk about Allen Tate and John Crow Ransom the rugs are clean and the coffeetables shine
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, ...
Our man was there to meet us, Gary Benson. He also wrote poetry and drove a cab. He was very fat but at least he didn’t look like a poet, he didn’t look North Beach or East Village or l...
the higher you climb the greater the pressure. those who manage to endure learn
On the elevator up, I was the only white man there. It seemed strange. They talked about the riots, not looking at me. “Jesus,” said a coal black guy, "it’s really something. These guys...
Again I was on a new route. The Stone always put me on hard routes, but now and then, due to the circumstances of things, he was forced to place me on one less murderous. Route 511 was ...