#1973 #AmericanWriters #AtTerrorStreetAndAgonyWay #BurningInWaterDrowningInFlame
I sat in the airport and waited. You never knew about photos. You could never tell. I was nervous. I felt like vomiting. I lit a cigarette and gagged. Why did I do these things? I didn’...
she only fucks the ones she doesn’… to marry. to the others she says you’ve got to marry me. or maybe she just fucks the ones s…
the girls are coming home in their… and I sit by the window and watch. there’s a girl in a red dress driving a white car
This babe in the grandstand with dyed red hair kept leaning her breasts against me and talking about Gardena poker parlors
all right, while we are gently cel… and while crazy classical music le… my small radio, I light a fresh ci… and realize that I am still very m… the 21st century is almost upon me…
death wants more death, and its we… I remember my father’s garage, how… I would brush the corpses of flies from the windows they thought were… their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
between 2 and 5 p.m. any day and a… Wednesday, it’s 20% off for us old dogs approaching the sunset… it’s strange to be old and not fee… old
One night I was assigned to the stool next to Butchner. He didn’t stick any mail. He just sat there. And talked. A young girl came in and sat down at the end of the aisle. I heard Butch...
he hooked to the body hard took it well and loved to fight had seven in a row and a small fle… over one eye,
in junior high school Big Max was a problem. we’d be sitting during lunch hour eating our peanut butter sandwiche… and potato chips.
I feel gypped by dunces as if reality were the property of little men with luck and a headstart, and I sit in the cold
I stop my car at the signal I see her walking past the graveya… as she walks past the iron fence I can see through the iron fence and I see the headstones
cigarettes wetted with beer from the night before you light one gag open the door for air
big sloppy wounded dog hit by a car and walking toward the curbing making enormous sounds
The next time you listen to Borod… remember he was just a chemist who wrote music to relax; his house was jammed with peor e: students, artists, drunkards, bur…