#AmericanWriters
Funky blues Keen toed shoes High water pants Saddy night dance Red soda water
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since depart… Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing
Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,