#AmericanWriters
I still get letters in the mail, m… men in tiny rooms with factory job… living with whores or no woman at… booze and madness. Most of their letters are on lined…
I phoned Joyce. “How’s it working with Purple Sti… “What did he do when you told him… “We were sitting across from each… “What happened?”
welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.
after the slaughter house there was a bar around the corner and I sat in there and watched the sun go down through the window,
I don’t beat the walls with my fis… I just sit but it rushes in a tide of it. the woman in the court behind me h…
On the elevator up, I was the only white man there. It seemed strange. They talked about the riots, not looking at me. “Jesus,” said a coal black guy, "it’s really something. These guys...
It was noon the next day when the phone rang. It was Lydia again. I heard a long insane wail like a wolverine shot in the arctic snow and left to bleed and die alone. . . . I slept most...
she undressed in front of me keeping her pussy to the front while I lay in bed with a bottle o… beer. where’d you get that wart on
it’s the same as before or the other time or the time before that. here’s a cock and here’s a cunt
There were continual fights. The teachers didn’t seem to know anything about them. And there was always trouble when it rained. Any boy who brought an umbrella to school or wore a rainc...
all the women all their kisses the different ways they love and talk and need. their ears they all have
too much too little too fat too thin or nobody.
The next day I sat in the hall in my green tin chair, waiting to be called. Across from me sat a man who had something wrong with his nose. It was very red and very raw and very fat and...
almost dawn blackbirds on the telephone wire waiting as I eat yesterday’s forgotten sandwich
I’m out of matches. the springs in my couch are broken. they stole my footlocker. they stole my oil painting of