#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
he used to sell papers in front: Get your winners! Get rich on a d… and about the 3rd or 4th race you’d see him rolling in on his ro… with roller skates underneath.
the words have come and gone, I sit ill. the phone rings, the cats sleep. Linda vacuums. I am waiting to live,
Lydia and I were always fighting. She was a flirt and it irritated me. When we ate out I was sure she was eyeballing some man across the room. When my male friends came by to visit and ...
I was standing in line at the bank… when the old fellow in front of me dropped his glasses (luckily, with… case) and as he bent over
There was another German Shepherd. It was hot summer and he came BOUNDING out of a back yard and then LEAPED through the air. His teeth snapped, just missing my jugular vein. “OH JESUS!...
I was always a natural slob I liked to lay upon the bed in undershirt (stained, of course) (and with cigarette holes)
was a truly amazing man he pretended to be rich even though we lived on beans and… when we sat down to eat, he said,
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...
The boys on Dorsey station didn’t know my problems. I’d enter through the back way each night, hide my sweater in a tray and walk in to get my timecard: We had a game going, the black-w...
he hooked to the body hard took it well and loved to fight had seven in a row and a small fle… over one eye,
Sunday, I am eating a grapefruit, church is over at the… Orthadox to the west. she is dark
in the hospitals I’ve been in you see the crosses on the walls with the thin palm leaves behind t… yellowed and browned it is the signal to accept the ine…
Jane, who has been dead for 31 yea… never could have imagined that I would write a scre… days together and
the 3 horse clipped the heels of the 7, they both went down and the 9 stumbled over them, jocks rolling, horses’ legs flung skyward.
if I suffer at this typewriter think how I’d feel among the lettuce— pickers of Salinas?