#AmericanWriters #1973 #AtTerrorStreetAndAgonyWay #BurningInWaterDrowningInFlame
In the morning I heard her walkin… It was about 10:30 a.m. I was sic… She shook me. “Listen, I want you… “So what? I’ll screw her too.” “Yeah,” she laughed, “yeah.”
I’ve always had trouble with money. this one place I worked everybody ate hot dogs and potato chips
I got up for a glass of water and as I walked into the kitchen I saw Picasso walk up to Joyce and lick her ankle. I was barefooted and she didn’t hear me. She had on high heels. She loo...
washed—up, on shore, the old yello… out again I write from the bed as I did last year.
in grievous deity my cat walks around he walks around and around with electric tail and
I wait on life like a pregnancy, p… the gut but all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth throu… brain
you with long hair, legs crossed h… the bar, you like a butcher knife… as the nightingale sings elsewhere… mingles with the roach’s hiss. know you as
It was another Sunday that we got into the Model-T in search of my Uncle John. “He has no ambition,” said my father. “I don’t see how he can hold his god-damned head up and look people ...
Then Joyce wanted to go back to the city. For all the draw– backs, that little town, haircuts or not, beat city life. It was quiet. We had our own house. Joyce fed me well.) Plenty of m...
when I was in grammar school my parents were poor and in my lunch bag there was only a peanut butter sandwich.
to be writing poetry at the age of… like a schoolboy, surely, I must be crazy; racetracks and booze and arguments with the landlord;
One day, just like in grammar school, like with David, a boy attached himself to me. He was small and thin and had almost no hair on top of his head. The guys called him Baldy. His real...
Tammie came by that night. She appeared to be high on uppers. “I want some champagne,” she said. Then the phone rang. It was Lydia. “I just wondered how you were doing. ...” “You know D...
live alone in a small room and read the newspapers and sleep alone in the dark dreaming of crowds.
But there were some good moments. My sometime friend from the neighborhood, Gene, who was a year older than I, had a buddy, Harry Gibson, who had had one professional fight (he’d lost)....