#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
We got back to 1010. I had my check. I’d left word that we didn’t want to be disturbed. Tammie and I sat drinking. I’d read 5 or 6 love poems about her. “They knew who I was,” she said....
A week later I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard with Lydia. A weekly entertainment newspaper published in California at that time had asked me to write an article on the life of the...
probably from the belly button or… bed, or maybe from the mouth of th… the car crash on the avenue that l… scattered on the grass. she comes from love gone wrong und…
One morning a few days later I entered Lydia’s courtyard as she was walking in from the alley. She had been over to see her friend Tina who lived in an apartment house on the corner. Sh...
The flies are angry bits of life; why are they so angry? it seems they want more, it seems almost as if they are angry
“You ought to try to be like Abe Mortenson,” said my mother, “he gets straight A’s. Why can’t you ever get any A’s?” “Henry is dead on his ass,” said my father. “Sometimes I can’t belie...
they’re not going to let you sit at a front table at some cafe in Europe in the mid-afternoon sun. you do, somebody’s going to
I didn’t do much the rest of the week. The Oaktree meet was on. I went to the track 2 or 3 times, broke even. I wrote a dirty story for a sex mag, wrote 10 or 12 poems, masturbated, and...
you haven’t lived until you’ve been in a flophouse with nothing but one light bulb
drinking German beer and trying to come up with the immortal poem at 5 p.m. in the afternoon. but, ah, I’ve told the
to be writing poetry at the age of… like a schoolboy, surely, I must be crazy; racetracks and booze and arguments with the landlord;
hey, said my friend, I want you to… Hangdog Harry, he reminds me of y… and I said, all right, and we went… this cheap hotel. old men sitting around watching
I had agreed to give a reading up north. It was the afternoon before the reading and I was sitting in an apartment at the Holiday Inn drinking beer with Joe Washington, the promoter, an...
they’d come around and they’d ask “you finished your 2nd novel yet?” “no.”