#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
there he is: not too many hangovers not too many fights with women not too many flat tires never a thought of suicide
I was always a natural slob I liked to lay upon the bed in undershirt (stained, of course) (and with cigarette holes)
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...
I got lucky the next day. They called my name. It was a different doctor. I stripped down. He turned a hot white light on me and looked me over. I was sitting on the edge of the examina...
One day I was at the bar between races and I saw this woman. God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on the streets, and this one’s ass is too big and that one’s tits ...
shot in the eye shot in the brain shot in the ass shot like a flower in the dance amazing how death wins hands down
up in northern California he stood in the pulpit and had been reading for some time he had been reading poems about nature and the goodness
stew at noon, my dear; and look: the ants, the sawdust, the mica plants, the shadows of banks like bad jokes; do you think we’ll hear
I was sitting with an anarchist from Beverly Hills, Ben Solvnag, who was writing my biography when I heard her footsteps on the court walk. I knew the sound—they were always fast and fr...
I was casing next to G.G. early one morning. That’s what they called him: G.G. His actual name was George Greene. But for years he was simply called G.G. and after a while he looked lik...
love, he said, gas kiss me off kiss my lips kiss my hair my fingers
once we were young at this machine. . . drinking
In the morning Dee Dee drove me to the Sunset Strip for breakfast. The Mercedes was black and shone in the sun. We drove past the billboards and the nightclubs and the fancy restaurants...
She wasn’t really a cop, she was a clerk-cop. And she started coming in and telling me about a guy who wore a purple stick pin and was a “real gentleman.” “Well,” I’d ask, “how was old ...
We are like roses that have never… bloom when we should have bloomed… it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting