#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
sick with the flu drinking beer my radio on loud enough to overcome the sounds of the
the balance is preserved by the sn… the Santa Monica cliffs; the luck is in walking down Wester… and having the girls in a massage parlor holler at you, “Hello, Swe…
To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine— just a lightbulb
at the track today, Father’s Day, each paid admission was entitled to a wallet and each contained a
Mindy stayed about a week. I introduced her to my friends. We went places. But nothing was resolved. I couldn’t climax. She didn’t seem to mind. It was strange. Around 10:45 PM one even...
He hinted at times that I was a bastard and I told him to listen to Brahms, and I told him to learn to paint and drink and not be dominated by women and dollars but he screamed at me, F...
beheaded in the middle of the night scratching my sides I am covered with bites kick my white legs out of the shee…
the rag. she sat there, glooming. I couldn’t do anything with her. it was raining. she got up and left.
he was 65, his wife was 66, had Alzheimer’s disease. he had cancer of the mouth. there were
a house with 7 or 8 people living in it getting up the rent. there’s a stereo never used and a set of bongos
It was 3 or 4 days before I had to fly to Houston to give a reading. I went to the track, drank at the track, and afterwards I went to a bar on Hollywood Boulevard. I went home at 9 or ...
Making love in the sun, in the mor… in a hotel room above the alley where poor men poke for bottles; making love in the sun
I got a letter in the mail. It was addressed from Hollywood. Dear Chinaski: I’ve just read almost all your books. I work as a typist in a place on Cherokee Ave. I’ve hung your picture i...
drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight