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

old grey-haired waitresses in cafes at night have given it up, and as I walk down sidewalks of light and look into windows

I keep thinking it will be outside now waiting for me blue front bumper twisted

I am in this low—slung sports car painted a deep, rich yellow driving under an Italian sun. I have a British accent. I’m wearing dark shades

When Jonstone saw me the next 5 a.m. he spun in his swivel and his face and his shirt were the same color. But he said nothing. I didn’t care. I had been up to 2 a.m. drinking and screw...

maybe I’ll win the Irish Sweepsta… maybe I’ll go nuts maybe Harcourt Brace will call or maybe unemployment insurance or rich lesbian at the top of a hill.

blue fish, the blue night, a blue… everything is blue. and my cats are blue: blue fur, bl… blue whiskers, blue eyes. my bed lamp shines

A day or so later I got a poem in the mail from Lydia. It was a long poem and it began: Come out, old troll, Come out of your dark hole, old troll, Come out into the sunlight with us an...

she lived in Galveston and was int… T.M. and I went down to visit her and w… continually even though it was ver… weather

I tried it standing up this time. it doesn’t usually work. this time it seemed

they’d come around and they’d ask “you finished your 2nd novel yet?” “no.”