#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
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…
New Year’s Eve was another bad night for me to get through. My parents had always delighted in New Year’s Eve, listening to it approach on the radio, city by city, until it arrived in L...
my father was a practical man. he had an idea. you see, my son, he said, I can pay for this house in my lif… then it’s mine.
yeah sure, I’ll be in unless I’m… don’t knock if the lights are out or you hear voices or then I might be reading Proust if someone slips Proust under my d…
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...
We had a 3:30 pm flight out of Los Angeles that Saturday. At 2 pm I went up and knocked on Tammie’s door. She wasn’t there. I want back to my place and sat down. The phone rang. It was ...
bluebird there’s a bluebird in my heart tha… wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, say, stay in there, I’m not going
we take what we can see— the engines driving us mad, lovers finally hating; this fish in the market staring upward into our minds;
When Jonstone saw me the next 5 a.m. he spun in his swivel and his face and his shirt were the same color. But he said nothing. I didn’t care. I had been up to 2 a.m. drinking and screw...
My drinking slowed down the next week. I went to the racetrack to get fresh air and sunshine and plenty of walking. At night I drank, wondering why I was still alive, how the scheme wor...
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.
re-reading some of Fante’s The Wine of Youth in bed this mid-afternoon my big cat
the branches break, the birds fall… the whores stand straight, the bombs stack, evening, morning, night, peanutbutter,
My mother went to her low-paying job each morning and my father, who didn’t have a job, left each morning too. Although most of the neighbors were unemployed he didn’t want them to thin...
the illusion is that you are simpl… reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem.