#AmericanWriters #1993 #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
near the corner table in the cafe middle-aged couple sit. they have finished their
kool enough to die but not kill I take my doctor’s green pill drink tea as the sharks swim through vases o…
I got back, made love to Lydia several times, got in a fight with her, and left L. A. International late one morning to give a reading in Arkansas. I was lucky enough to have a seat by ...
I suppose like any other boy I had one best friend in the neigh… his name was Eugene and he was big… than I was and one year older. Eugene used to whip me pretty good…
we are gathered here now to bury her in this poem. she did not marry an unemployed wi… beat her every
sway with me, everything sad— madmen in stone houses without doors, lepers steaming love and song frogs trying to figure
stuck in the rain on the freeway,… these are the lucky ones, these ar… dutifully employed, most with thei… as possible as they try not to thi… this is our new civilization: as m…
out of the arms of one love and into the arms of another I have been saved from dying on th… by a lady who smokes pot writes songs and stories,
16 and one-half inch neck 68 years old lifts weights body like a young
shot in the eye shot in the brain shot in the ass shot like a flower in the dance amazing how death wins hands down
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
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 track had moved down the coast a hundred miles or so. I kept paying the rent on my apartment in town, got in my car and drove down. Once or twice a week I would drive back to the ap...
A month went by. R.A. Dwight, the editor of Dogbite Press wrote and asked me to do a foreword to Keesing’s Selected Poems. Keesing, with the help of his death, was at last going to get ...
the lair of the hunted is hidden in the last place you’d ever look and even if you find it you won’t believe