No way was Robert actually surprised that hewas competitive with himself, but there was something way more concrete about this. Instead of hand wringing, there was someone, Bob, that he could punch.

Maybe tonight, maybe next week,/ maybe only in my waking dreams,/ I’ll teach another lesson-

You took up residence on the dark side of things, a bolthole in a wind-flayed right angle of a tower block where pigeons and suicides tumbled blackly on the air currents. You set about drifting off from who you were on a tide of cheap whisky and bad poetry, graduating…

I opened my switchblade mouth and sliced through the scab of silence.

“I scheduled some time today to talk to you about something…something important. Since you’re going on with your life, leaving everything you’ve known so far, you’re going to need some information about sex.”

A little contempuous aside by the critical theorist guy, Frederick Jameson-- that it was logically absurd to call anything that human beings do, produce or effect “unnatural,”-- has brought forth the following. We are…

With such a world/ one must invent a heaven

I bear the wrong gin. Your air conditioner runs cold. It is either frigid or off, the gauge broken. You are not too old to overlook these things. You can't be choosy, but you will never beg. Just an occasional choice as you settle into this…

So she started sneaking into people’s houses in the middle of the night. She’d just sit in the kitchen for an hour or so, and just feel the peace. Never took anything or got into anything. Just sat there silently.

[ETIQUETTE ... DECORUM ... BOUNDARIES ... BAH!]

"Carl, do you think we can fit all of our furniture into that red house?" Jeanne asks. She wonders how easily you could burn a red house down, if a claw foot tub will melt or be left standing in a field of black grass. He reaches for her hair, the dizzy smell…

He was ready for the rub. Tense. She could always tell. The legs, the shuffles. He had to be frantic before he would come to her, his own wife. Vanity, fright. She could read him like a book open on the table, turn his pages the way a fish flakes. "It's comfort night,…

I keep encouraging him to write stories not poems, but I think he enjoys writing things that don’t fit together. Things that stumble.

And Mickey said to the reporter, "I wrote a play for Richard. It is the wild play I performed with Richard. I think he will like this shit."

I watched you knee deep in water with a little boy you were hitting.