#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
Office of Postmaster—United States Post Office—January 1, 1970 The attention of all employees is directed to the Code of Ethics for postal employees as set forth in Part 742 of the Post...
it’s unfortunate, and simply not the style, but I don’t care: girls remind me of hair in the sink, girls remind me of intestines and bladders and excretory movements; it’s unfortunate a...
she had huge thighs and a very good laugh she laughed at everything and the curtains were yellow and I finished
Lydia and I were always fighting. She was a flirt and it irritated me. When we ate out I was sure she was eyeballing some man across the room. When my male friends came by to visit and ...
now the territory is taken, the sacrificial lambs have been sl… as history is scratched again on t… as the bankers scurry to survive, as the young girls paint their hun…
Some say we should keep personal r… poem, stay abstract, and there is some r… but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don’t keep…
sitting with the professors we talk about Allen Tate and John Crow Ransom the rugs are clean and the coffeetables shine
I paid this one’s fare all the way… to San Francisco then flew up to meet her at her br… and I got drunk and talked all night about a redhe…
I was a bum in San Francisco but… to go to a symphony concert along… and the music was good but somethi… audience was not and something about the orchestra
she was sitting in the window of room 1010 at the Chelsea in New York, Janis Joplin’s old room. it was 104 degrees
“You ought to try to be like Abe Mortenson,” said my mother, “he gets straight A’s. Why can’t you ever get any A’s?” “Henry is dead on his ass,” said my father. “Sometimes I can’t belie...
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…
drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight