#AmericanWriters
see this final storm as nothing ve… the world; there are so many more important t… consider. see this final storm as nothing ve…
the ladies of summer will die like… and the lie the ladies of summer will love so long as the price is not forever
Phillipe ’s is an old time cafe off Alameda street just a little north and east of the main post office. Phillipe’s opens at 5 a.m.
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
I had to take a shit but instead I went into this shop to have a key made. the woman was dressed
After nine or ten hours people began getting sleepy and falling into their cases, catching themselves just in time. We were working the zoned mail. If a letter read zone 28 you stuck it...
“It’s the manager, Freddy. He has started whistling this song. He’s whistling it when I come in in the morning and he never stops, and he’s whistling it when I go home at night. It’s be...
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...
first of all, I had a hard time, a… locating the parking lot for the b… wasn’t off the main boulevard wher… the cars all driven by merciless k… were doing 55 mph in a 25 mph zone…
this head like a saucer decorated with everything as lip to lip we hang in mechanical joy; my hands blaze with arias
“...I’ve seen people in front of their typewriters in such a bind that it would blow their intestine… right out of their assholes if the… were trying to shit.”
she wrote me for years. “I’m drinking wine in the kitchen. it’s raining outside. the children are in school.” she was an average citizen
“your poems about the girls will s… 50 years from now when the girls a… my editor phones me. dear editor: the girls appear to be gone
these boys have got class they ought to make kings out of old men rolling cigarettes in rooms small enough
a poem is a city filled with stree… filled with saints, heroes, beggar… filled with banality and booze, filled with rain and thunder and p… drought, a poem is a city at war,