#AmericanWriters
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
old Butch, they fixed him the girls don’t look like much anymore. when Big Sam moved out of the back
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
twitching in the sheets— to face the sunlight again, that’s clearly trouble. I like the city better when the
he packaged it up neatly in differ… sending the legs to an aunt in St.… the head to a scoutmaster in Brook… the belly to a cross-eyed butcher… the female organs were sent to a y…
we take what we can see— the engines driving us mad, lovers finally hating; this fish in the market staring upward into our minds;
The next day in bed I got tired of waiting for the airplanes and I found a large yellow notebook that had been meant for high school work. It was empty. I found a pen. I went to bed wit...
There were continual fights. The teachers didn’t seem to know anything about them. And there was always trouble when it rained. Any boy who brought an umbrella to school or wore a rainc...
I know that some night in some bedroom soon my fingers will rift
my daughter is most glorious. we are eating a takeout snack in my car in Santa Monica.
the strong men the muscle men there they sit down at the beach cocoa tans
An old man asked me for a cigarett… and I carefully dealt out two. Been lookin’ for job. Gonna stand in the sun and smoke.” He was close to rags and rage
this head like a saucer decorated with everything as lip to lip we hang in mechanical joy; my hands blaze with arias
over my radio now comes the sound of a truly mad org… can see some monk drunk in a cellar mind gone or found,
I always wanted to ball Henry Miller, she said, but by the time I got there it was too late. damn it, I said, you girls