#1993 #AmericanWriters #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
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.
I wait on life like a pregnancy, p… the gut but all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth throu… brain
was much easier to be a genius in… only 3 or 4 literary magazines and… or 5 times you could end up in Ger… you could possibly meet Picasso fo… maybe only Miró.
we have everything and we have not… and some men do it in churches and some men do it by tearing butt… in half and some men do it in Palm Spring…
Sam the whorehouse man has squeaky shoes and he walks up and down the court squeaking and talking to
stew at noon, my dear; and look: the ants, the sawdust, the mica plants, the shadows of banks like bad jokes; do you think we’ll hear
there are many single women in the… with one or two or three children and one wonders where the husbands have gone or where the lovers have gone
my friend William is a fortunate m… he lacks the imagination to suffer he kept his first job his first wife can drive a car 50,000 miles
as the poems go into the thousands… realize that you’ve created very little. it comes down to the rain, the sun… the traffic, the nights and the da…
places to hunt places to hide are getting harder to find, and pet canaries and goldfish too, did you… that?
there are worse things than being alone but it often takes decades to realize this and most often
the dream of a man is a whore with a gold tooth and a garter belt, perfumed with false eyebrows
absolutely sesamoid said the skeleton shoving his chalky foot upon my desk, and that was it,
Thanks for the good letter. I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from. You know the places where I came from. Even the people who try to write about that or mak...
It was noon the next day when the phone rang. It was Lydia again. I heard a long insane wail like a wolverine shot in the arctic snow and left to bleed and die alone. . . . I slept most...