#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
live alone in a small room and read the newspapers and sleep alone in the dark dreaming of crowds.
in the Valkerie Mountains among the strutting peacocks I found a flower as large as my head
know. I know. they are limited, have different needs and concerns. but I watch and learn from them.
I was hungover again, another heat spell was on—a week of 100 degree days. The drinking went on each night, and in the early mornings and days there was The Stone and the impossibility ...
hey, said my friend, I want you to… Hangdog Harry, he reminds me of y… and I said, all right, and we went… this cheap hotel. old men sitting around watching
there are these small cliffs above the sea and it is night, late night; I have been unable to sleep, and with my car above me
it sits outside my window now like and old woman going to market… it sits and watches me, it sweats nevously through wire and fog and dog—bark
I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh,
I had been sleeping on a terrible mattress with the springs sticking into me for several years. That afternoon when I awakened I pulled the mattress off the bed, dragged it outside, and...
I got up for a glass of water and as I walked into the kitchen I saw Picasso walk up to Joyce and lick her ankle. I was barefooted and she didn’t hear me. She had on high heels. She loo...
One day I was at the bar between races and I saw this woman. God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on the streets, and this one’s ass is too big and that one’s tits ...
Vallejo writing about loneliness while starving to death; Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a whore;
Jimmy Hatcher worked part time in a grocery store. While none of us could get jobs he could always get one. He had his little movie star face and his mother had a great body. With his f...
Jane, who has been dead for 31 yea… never could have imagined that I would write a scre… days together and
I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love. It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. “I got married,” she said, ...