#Americans #XXCentury #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
Fay was pregnant. But it didn’t change her and it didn’t change the post office either. The same clerks did all the work while the miscellaneous crew stood around and argued about sport...
I’m out of matches. the springs in my couch are broken. they stole my footlocker. they stole my oil painting of
It was Christmas season and I learned from the drunk up the hill, who did the trick every Christmas, that they would hire damned near anybody, and so I went and the next thing I knew I ...
good weather is like good women— it doesn’t always happen and when it does
she’s from Texas and weighs 103 pounds and stands before the mirror combing oceans of reddish hair
The drilling and squeezing continued for weeks but there was little result. When one boil vanished another would appear. I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a...
Lydia met me at the airport. She was horny as usual. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “I’m hot! I play with myself but it doesn’t do any good.” “Lydia, my leg is still in terrible shape. I jus...
I took it home, opened the beer, got into bed and began. It started well. It was about how Janko had lived in small rooms and starved while trying to find a job. He had trouble with the...
my grandfather was a tall German with a strange smell on his breath… he stood very straight in front of his small house and his wife hated him
with an Apple Macintosh you can’t run Radio Shack program… in its disc drive. nor can a Commodore 64 drive read a file
he buys 5 cars a month, details th… them out, then resells them at a profit of one or… he has a nice Jewish wife and he t… bangs her until the walls shake.
he drank wine all night of the 28th, and he kept thinking of her: the way she walked and talked and… the way she told him things that s… but were not, and he knew the colo…
I can see myself now after all these suicide days and n… being wheeled out of one of those… (of course, this is only if I get… by a subnormal and bored nurse
great writer remains in bed shades down doesn’t want to see anyone doesn’t want to write anymore doesn’t want to try anymore;
drunk and writing poems at 3 a.m. what counts now is one more tight