#AmericanWriters
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.
16 years old during the depression I’d come home drunk and all my clothing— shorts, shirts, stockings—
I feel gypped by dunces as if reality were the property of little men with luck and a headstart, and I sit in the cold
people went into vacant lots and pulled up greens to cook and the men rolled Bull Durham or smoked Wings (10 a pack) and the dogs were thin and the cats were thin and the cats learned h...
I paid this one’s fare all the way… to San Francisco then flew up to meet her at her br… and I got drunk and talked all night about a redhe…
out of the arms of one love and into the arms of another I have been saved from dying on th… by a lady who smokes pot writes songs and stories,
sun-stroked women without men on a Santa Monica Monday; the men are working or in jail or insane;
But, there were still bits of action. One guy was caught on the same stairway that I had been trapped on. He was caught there with his head under some girl’s skirt. Then one of the girl...
women don’t know how to love, she told me. you know how to love but women just want to leech.
during my worst times on the park benches in the jails or living with whores
After Debra left for work the next morning I bathed, then tried to watch t.v. I walked around naked and noticed that I could be seen from the street through the front window. So I had a...
New Year’s Eve was another bad night for me to get through. My parents had always delighted in New Year’s Eve, listening to it approach on the radio, city by city, until it arrived in L...
I’m not going to die easy; I’ve sat on your suicide beds in some of the worst holes in America,
not much chance, completely cut loose from purpose, he was a young man riding a bus
I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train