#AmericanWriters #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
In the betting line the other day man behind me asked, “are you Henry Chinaski?”
suppose like others have come through fire and sword, love gone wrong, head-on crashes, drunk at sea, and I have listened to the simple…
sway with me, everything sad— madmen in stone houses without doors, lepers steaming love and song frogs trying to figure
Wednesday night found me at the airport waiting for Iris. I sat around and looked at the women. None of them—except for one or two—looked as good as Iris. There was something wrong with...
I was sitting next to a young girl who didn’t know her scheme very well. “Where does 2900 Roteford go?" she asked me. "Try throwing it to 33," I told her. “You say you’re from Kansas Ci...
if you’re going to try, go all the way. otherwise, don’t even start. if you’re going to try, go all the way.
it is the man you’ve never seen wh… keeps you going, the one who might arrive someday. he isn’t out on the streets or
the pleasures of the damned are limited to brief moments of happiness: like the eyes in the look of a dog… like a square of wax,
I don’t know how it happens to people. I had child support, need for something to drink, rent, shoes, shirts, socks, all that stuff. Like everyone else I needed an old car, something to...
these boys have got class they ought to make kings out of old men rolling cigarettes in rooms small enough
I finally, got a day off, and you know what I did? I got up early before Joyce got back in and I went down to the market to do a little shopping, and maybe I was crazy. I walked through...
all the women all their kisses the different ways they love and talk and need. their ears they all have
The phone rang the next morning. Lydia had gone back to her place. It was Bobby, the kid who lived in the next block and worked in the porno bookstore. “Mindy’s down here. She wants you...
I had agreed to give a reading up north. It was the afternoon before the reading and I was sitting in an apartment at the Holiday Inn drinking beer with Joe Washington, the promoter, an...
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.