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There was a whole group of us Young Turk poets who hung out at the Savoy Tivoli in North Beach. Most of them drove cabs, (whereas I was now working in a damned gas station for Angel, my publisher’s man, who got me a job there.) They would double-park th
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That night we went out to shoot some pool at the pool hall over on Durant Avenue, which was above a bar called Kip’s. Rotten Bobby walked in with his own damn pool cue, which came broken down in two pieces. He carried it in a narrow felt-lined carrying
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Steve Bancroft’s future wife showed up at his door that same night, slamming her hand loudly against the door and shouting for him. “Steve, Steve, wake up. Damn it, come on. You forgot to pick me up at the airport. Who are you in there with? I said wa
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Thus was Rent-a- Rat, Inc born. At first it was Rent-a-Rugrat, but we changed it so the Army wouldn’t be onto us. Our first headquarters was out of a damned tent on Red Square, but we would get the hell out of there as soon as we could muster the necess
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At the house one night we were all sitting around at one of those infernal communal meetings that go on into the night full of pot smoke and red wine, when the door was nudged open and a stray dog wandered into the living room. It was a strange coyote-loo
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His wings were down when he got into the truck. It was a used UPS truck we’d bought from someone in Berkeley, and we painted out the letter “S,” so that it just read “UP.”
We’d seen him standing by the side of Highway 1, but tried to ignore
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Lamborghini...Albert Feeney...Mother Cabrini...
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You just shrugged an oy vey and then pulled the ants off the cheese as if praying the rosary and patience were synonyms.
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"...Halfway
between patchouli
and premonition. I try
to get in
and out ... "
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This is the poem you leave behind that you die in the middle of.
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It’s beautiful to look at and to hold/
though true musicians would be appalled/
by the black plastic
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It’s beautiful to look at and to hold/
though true musicians would be appalled/
by the black plastic
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RESIGHT GUN POEM Loose as a goose on snoose, boogied down to a booth. Ordered a John Wilkes. The waiter sneered there was no order. Toilet backed up, sink overflowing, air choked with secondary smoke. He…
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#ShortStory #writers
are failed #poets...
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The old-timers at the Working Man’s Club wear a sheen of indifference every Wednesday night. Beneath the wafting, cresting mountains of burning cigarettes smoke, the train-track rattle of dominoes chipping at the dark wood tables in the corner, the consta
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