The Last Night of the Earth Poems

I often carry things to read so that I will not have to look at the people.

animals never worry about Heaven or Hell. neither do I. maybe that's why we get along

I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.

writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all

I could read the great books but the great books don't interest me.

people see so many movies that when they finally see one not so bad as the others, they think it's great. an Academy Award means that you don't stink quite as much as your cousin.

young or old, good or bad, I don't think anything dies as slow and as hard as a writer.

great books are the ones we need

not writing is not good but trying to write when you can't is worse.

I was so thin I could slice bread with my shoulderblades, only I seldom had bread

I was fairly poor but most of my money went for wine and classical music. I loved to mix the two together.

there was a soldier in the next room living with his wife and he would soon be going over there to protect me from Hitler so I snapped the radio off and then heard his wife say, "you shouldn't have done that." and the soldier said, "FUCK THAT GUY!" which I thought was a very nice thing for him to tell his wife to do. of course, she never did.

people are worn away with striving, they hide in common habits. their concerns are herd concerns. few have the ability to stare at an old shoe for ten minutes or to think of odd things like who invented the doorknob? they become unalive because they are unable to pause undo themselves unkink unsee unlearn roll clear. listen to their untrue laughter, then walk away.

death is walking up and down this room smoking my cigars taking hits of my wine

of one hundred movies there's one that is fair, one that's good and ninety eight that are very bad. most movies start badly and steadily get worse

a bird no one wants. he’s mine. my bird of pain. he doesn’t sing. that bird swaying on the bough.

if I had a book or a drink then I didn’t think too much of other things—fools create their own paradise.

alone tonight in this house, alone with 6 cats who tell me without effort all that there is to know.

But you know, my former life as a bibliophile, it possibly kept me from murdering somebody, myself included. it kept me from being an industrialist. it allowed me to endure some women that most men would never be able to live with. it gave me space, a pause. it helped me to write this.

I look like a man in a death camp. I am. still, I'm lucky: I feat on solitude, I will never miss the crowd.

they thought that writing had something to do with the politics of the thing. they were simply not crazy enough in the head to sit down to a typer and let the words bang out. they didn't want to write they wanted to succeed at writing.

another hot summer night as I sit here and play at being a writer again. and the worst thing of course is that the words will never truly break through for any of us. some nights I have taken the sheet out of the typer and held it over the cigarette lighter, flicked it and waited for the result.

is there any wonder why the world is where it’s at now? just notice the creature sitting near you in a movie house or standing ahead of you in a supermarket line. or giving a State of the Union Address. that the gods have let us go on this long this badly.

as a very young man I divided an equal amount of time between the bars and the libraries; how I managed to provide for my other ordinary needs is the puzzle; well, I simply didn’t bother too much with that— if I had a book or a drink then I didn’t think too much of other things—fools create their own paradise.

it is a fine sunny day and great matters loom across the horizon of history. Carthage in my rearview mirror, I blend into Time.