#1993 #AmericanWriters #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
I stop my car at the signal I see her walking past the graveya… as she walks past the iron fence I can see through the iron fence and I see the headstones
The bandages were helpful. L.A. County Hospital had finally come up with something. The boils drained. They didn’t vanish but they flattened a bit. Yet some new ones would appear and ri...
monkey feet small and blue walking toward you as the back of a building falls of… and an airplane chews the white sk…
When I awakened it was 1:30 pm. I took a bath, got dressed, checked the mail. A letter from a young man in Glendale. "Dear Mr. Chinaski: I am a young writer and I think that I am a good...
The next day we picked up some of her stuff at this motel. There was a little dark guy in there with a wart on the side of his nose. He looked dangerous. Hector was sitting on the edge ...
he drank wine all night of the 28th, and he kept thinking of her: the way she walked and talked and… the way she told him things that s… but were not, and he knew the colo…
I took Tanya to Santa Anita. The current sensation was a 16 year old jockey still riding with his 5 pound bug advantage. He was from the east and was riding at Santa Anita for the first...
with old cars, especially when you… and drive them for many years a love affair is inevitable: you even learn to accept their little
—he’s a dandy —small moustache —usually sucking on a cigar he tends to lean into cars as he transacts business
I wait on life like a pregnancy, p… the gut but all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth throu… brain
225 days under grass and you know more than I. they have long taken your blood, you are a dry stick in a basket. is this how it works?
some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind… for 3 or 4 days. they’ll find me there. it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and
all right, while we are gently cel… and while crazy classical music le… my small radio, I light a fresh ci… and realize that I am still very m… the 21st century is almost upon me…
a poem is a city filled with stree… filled with saints, heroes, beggar… filled with banality and booze, filled with rain and thunder and p… drought, a poem is a city at war,
when I look back now at the abuse I took from her I feel shame that I was so innocent,