#AmericanWriters #1971 #PostOffice
she’s young, she said, but look at me, I have pretty ankles, and look at my wrists, I have pret… wrists
at the track today, Father’s Day, each paid admission was entitled to a wallet and each contained a
she writes continually like a long nozzle spraying the air,
sun-stroked women without men on a Santa Monica Monday; the men are working or in jail or insane;
it is justified all dying is justified all killing all death all passing, nothing is in vain
I hear them outside: “does he always type this late?” “no, it’s very unusual.” “he shouldn’t type this
stepped into the wrong end of the… right leg which was bad to begin w… with a tv writer and an actor, som… life to make a sitcom and luckily… day at the track I get a box seat…
I had been sleeping on a terrible mattress with the springs sticking into me for several years. That afternoon when I awakened I pulled the mattress off the bed, dragged it outside, and...
you just don’t know how to do it, you know that, and you can’t do a lot of other useful things either. it’s the fault of the
sitting on a 2nd-floor porch at 1:… while looking out over the city. could be worse. we needn’t accomplish great things…
Dee Dee had to pick up her son at the airport. He was coming home from England for his vacation. He was 17, she told me, and his father was an ex-concert pianist. But he’d fallen for sp...
They don’t make it the beautiful die in flame— suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh… ever... they rip their arms off,
I keep thinking it will be outside now waiting for me blue front bumper twisted
It’s never quite right, he said, t… the way the music sounds, the way… written. It’s never quite right, he said, a… taught, all the loves we chase, al…
are we going to the movies or not? she asked him. all right, he said, let’s go. I’m not going to put any pan ties… so you can finger-fuck me in the