#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
drive to the beach at night in the winter and sit and look at the burned-dow… wonder why they just let it sit th… in the water.
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
listening to Wagner as outside in the dark the wind bl… trees wave and shake lights go off and on the walls creak and the… bed...
I awakened to dryness and the fern… the potted plants yellow as corn; my woman was gone and the empty bottles like bled co… surrounded me with their uselessne…
god I got the sad blue blues, this woman sat there and she said are you really Charles Bukowski?
near the corner table in the cafe middle-aged couple sit. they have finished their
it is the man you’ve never seen wh… keeps you going, the one who might arrive someday. he isn’t out on the streets or
have we gone wrong again? we laugh less and less, become more sadly sane. all we want is the absence of others.
Long walks at night— that’s what good for the soul: peeking into windows watching tired housewives trying to fight off
The next day I sat in the hall in my green tin chair, waiting to be called. Across from me sat a man who had something wrong with his nose. It was very red and very raw and very fat and...
There are sketches on the walls of… and outside a large green bus swer… insanity sprung from a waving line… says the radio, and Jane Austin,… “I am going to do her portrait on…
kool enough to die but not kill I take my doctor’s green pill drink tea as the sharks swim through vases o…
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 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 ...
here I am in the ground my mouth open and