#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
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...
They are building a house half a block down and I sit up here with the shades down listening to the sounds,
We got back to 1010. I had my check. I’d left word that we didn’t want to be disturbed. Tammie and I sat drinking. I’d read 5 or 6 love poems about her. “They knew who I was,” she said....
That night I gave another bad reading. I didn’t care. They didn’t care. If John Cage could get one thousand dollars for eating an apple, I’d accept $500 plus air fare for being a lemon....
Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated.
They don’t make it the beautiful die in flame— suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh… ever... they rip their arms off,
call it the greenhouse effect or w… but it just doesn’t rain like it u… I particularly remember the rains… depression era. there wasn’t any money but there w…
Tammie came by that night. She appeared to be high on uppers. “I want some champagne,” she said. Then the phone rang. It was Lydia. “I just wondered how you were doing. ...” “You know D...
in grievous deity my cat walks around he walks around and around with electric tail and
I was editing a little magazine at the time, The Laxative Approach. I had two co-editors and we felt that we were printing the best poets of our time. Also some of the other kind. One o...
she was a short one getting fat and she had once been beautiful and she drank the wine she drank the wine in bed and
she cut my toenails the night befo… and in the morning she said, “I th… just lay here all day.” which meant she wasn’t going to wo… she was at my apartment—which mean…
I think of automobiles parked in a parking lot when I think of myself dead I think of frying pans when I think of myself dead
the hearse comes through the room… the beheaded, the disappeared, the… mad. the flies are a glue of sticky pas… their wings will not
they’re not going to let you sit at a front table at some cafe in Europe in the mid-afternoon sun. you do, somebody’s going to