Lydia liked parties. And Harry was a party-giver. So we were on our way to Harry Ascot’s. Harry was the editor of Retort, a little magazine. His wife wore long see-through dresses, show...

like the fox run with the hunted and if I’m not the happiest man on earth

the sun slides down through the sh… have a pair of black shoes and a p… brown shoes. can hardly remember the girls of m… there is numb blood pulsing throug…

these things that we support most… have nothing to do with up, and we do with them out of boredom or fear or money or cracked intelligence;

beheaded in the middle of the night scratching my sides I am covered with bites kick my white legs out of the shee…

sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 j… female. brown paper bags filled with trash… everywhere. is one-thirty in the afternoon.

sometimes after you get your ass kicked real good by the forces you often wish you were a crane standing on one leg in blue water

once we were young at this machine. . . drinking

there waas a rock-and-mud slide on the Pacific Coast Highway and… detour and they directed us up int… and traffic was slow and it was ho… we were lost.

I had begun to dislike my father. He was always angry about something. Wherever we went he got into arguments with people. But he didn’t appear to frighten most people; they often just ...

the old L.A. Public Library burn… down that library downtown and with it went large part of my

Cecelia sat and watched us drink. I could see that I repulsed her. I ate meat. I had no god. I liked to fuck. Nature didn’t interest me. I never voted. I liked wars. Outer space bored m...

the rag. she sat there, glooming. I couldn’t do anything with her. it was raining. she got up and left.

here comes the fishhead singing here comes the baked potato in dra… here comes nothing to do all day l… here comes another night of no sle… here comes the phone ringing the w…