welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.

to be writing poetry at the age of… like a schoolboy, surely, I must be crazy; racetracks and booze and arguments with the landlord;

I have just spent one—hour—and—a—h… handicapping tomorrow’s card. when am I going to get at the poem… well, they’ll just have to wait

she was sitting in the window of room 1010 at the Chelsea in New York, Janis Joplin’s old room. it was 104 degrees

One morning a few days later I entered Lydia’s courtyard as she was walking in from the alley. She had been over to see her friend Tina who lived in an apartment house on the corner. Sh...

the old folks play a game in the park overlooking the sea shoving markers across cement with wooden sticks. four play, two on each side

the soldiers march without guns the graves are empty peacocks glide in the rain down stairways march great men smi… there is food enough and rent enou…

at high noon at a small college near the beach sober the sweat running down my arms a spot of sweat on the table

you’ve got to fuck a great many wo… beautiful women and write a few decent love poems. and don’t worry about age and/or freshly-arrived talents.

believe in earning one’s own way but I also believe in the unexpect… gift and it is a wondrous thing when a woman who has read your wor…

It was 12 hours a night, plus supervisors, plus clerks, plus the fact that you could hardly breathe in that pack of flesh, plus stale baked food in the “non-profit” cafeteria. Plus the ...