#AmericanWriters
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
think of the beds used again and again to fuck in to die in. in this land
she bent over the side of the bed and opened the portfolio along the side of the wall. we were drinking. she said, “you promised me these
the soldiers march without guns the graves are empty peacocks glide in the rain down stairways march great men smi… there is food enough and rent enou…
am sitting on a tin chair outside… death, on stinking wings, wafts th… halls forevermore. remember the hospital stenches fro… was a boy and when I was a man and…
remember, he told me, that when I… years old my mother was always tak… to the doctor and saying, “he hasn… she was always asking me, “have yo… pooped?”
often it is the only thing between you and impossibility. no drink,
looking out the window smoking rolled cigarettes drinking Sanka and watching the workers come on in
they get up on their garage roof both of them 80 or 90 years old standing on the slant she wanting to fall really all the way
at North Avenue 21 drunk tank you… there was always some guy who woul… way to the crapper and then you would curse him good,… he would know enough to either be…
One night I was coming around the corner after sneaking down to the cafeteria for a pack of smokes. And there was a face I knew. It was Tom Moto! The guy I had subbed with under The Sto...
she’s young, she said, but look at me, I have pretty ankles, and look at my wrists, I have pret… wrists
no one is sorry I am leaving, not even I; but there should be a minstrel or at least a glass of wine. bothers the young most, I think:
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...
I can see myself now after all these suicide days and n… being wheeled out of one of those… (of course, this is only if I get… by a subnormal and bored nurse