maybe i love you

that's why you haunt me. i sat at the corner on la brea, at the bus bench, freezing my fingers off, looking for you.

being a girl

the problem is in not being one.

it's not going to get better---sorry

here's the truth, it's not going to get better.

the date

he rolled up in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

what's wrong, lisa?

i don't really understand it, but i've had way too many emails

at odds

i waited. i called.

los angeles snapshot

i slept in a gutter,

you

had dirty fingers. a taste for strippers.

number 9

i want you to tell me what you did. what poison could i take, in los angeles bars.

my love

isn't ready

homeless

she has no home

do you miss me?

i miss you
do you miss me?

When My Father Was Jesus

When my father was Jesus, he stormed around the house and the back-porch screaming loud as the apostles and catching lost birds.

Bird Land Storm Land

Bird-Land Storm-Land

It’s not like you can tell, father said.
What does that mean, daughter said?
It means when it happens you won’t feel it.

Troia

I met John through Justin.

Harry Dean Stanton

It was hot outside
I was working at the Grill in Beverly Hills

Bukowski Letters

I found these letters from our man BUK. He wrote one to my Dad's publisher, John Martin, of Black Sparrow Press.