It's hot tonight and half the neighborhood is drunk. the other half is dead. if I have any advice about writing poetry it's - don't. I'm going to send out for some fried chicken.

Why did I come here? I thought. Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?

yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and back down into the gut

dont undress my love you might find a mannequin dont undress the mannequin you might find love. shes long ago forgotten me. hes trying on a new hat and looks more the coquette then ever. she is a child and a mannequin and death. i can't hate that. she didnt do anything unusual. I only wanted her to.

Getting drunk was good. I decided that I would always like getting drunk. It took away the obvious and maybe if you could get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn't become so obvious yourself.

That was all a man needed: hope. It was lack of hope that discouraged a man.

Writers are nothing but beggars with a good line.