#Americans #XXCentury #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
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...
as the orchid dies and the grass goes insane, let’s have one for the los… met an old man and a tired whore
Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated.
oh, how worried they are about my soul! I get letters the phone rings... “are you going to be all right?”
he sits all day at the bus stop at Sunset and Western his sleeping bag beside him. he’s dirty. nobody bothers him.
I feel gypped by dunces as if reality were the property of little men with luck and a headstart, and I sit in the cold
she was sitting in the window of room 1010 at the Chelsea in New York, Janis Joplin’s old room. it was 104 degrees
I have been looking at the same lampshade for 5 years and it has gathered
It was about a week later around 7 a.m. I had lucked into another day off and after a double workout, I was up against Joyce’s ass, her asshole, sleeping, verily sleeping, and then the ...
After Debra left for work the next morning I bathed, then tried to watch t.v. I walked around naked and noticed that I could be seen from the street through the front window. So I had a...
Sam the whorehouse man has squeaky shoes and he walks up and down the court squeaking and talking to
neither does this mean the dead are at the door begging bread before
I phoned Joyce. “How’s it working with Purple Sti… “What did he do when you told him… “We were sitting across from each… “What happened?”
Our man was there to meet us, Gary Benson. He also wrote poetry and drove a cab. He was very fat but at least he didn’t look like a poet, he didn’t look North Beach or East Village or l...