#AmericanWriters
in the winter walking on my ceiling my eyes the size of street… I have 4 feet like a mouse but wash my own underwear—bearded and hungover and a hard-on and no lawy…
Each night as I got ready to go on in, Joyce had my clothing laid out on the bed. Everything was the most expensive money could buy. I never wore the same pair of pants, the same shirt,...
—he’s a dandy —small moustache —usually sucking on a cigar he tends to lean into cars as he transacts business
My drinking slowed down the next week. I went to the racetrack to get fresh air and sunshine and plenty of walking. At night I drank, wondering why I was still alive, how the scheme wor...
terrible arguments. and, at last, lying peacefully on her large bed which is spread in red with cool patterns o…
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.
I had to take a shit but instead I went into this shop to have a key made. the woman was dressed
she pulled her dress off over her head and I saw the panties indented somewhat into the crotch.
see this poem? was written without drinking. don’t need to drink to write.
My father always ran the neighborhood kids away from our house. I was told not to play with them but I walked down the street and watched them anyhow. “Hey, Heinie!” they yelled, “Why d...
you sit on the couch with me tonight new woman. have you seen the
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
know. I know. they are limited, have different needs and concerns. but I watch and learn from them.
My German doctor walked up. The one who had given me the blood tests. “Congratulations,” he said, shaking my hand, "it’s a girl. 9 pounds, 3 ounces.” “The mother will be all right. She ...
the wind blows hard to night and it’s a cold wind and I think about the boys on the row. hope some of them have a bottle
