#AmericanWriters
At your light side trees shy A kneeling enters them
I’m tired of murdering children. Once, long ago today, they wanted… now I feel Vietnam the place where rigor mortis is beginning to… I force silence down the throats o…
But if they’d give us toys and twi… parents splurge on the average kid… in fact, stacks wrapped with our n… the tree: these sparkling allotmen… guaranteed a lack of—what?—family?…
All it takes is Laura Riding’s ri… crop across my butt, and I’m off: Git-up horsie she cries astride me… I crash sweetly onto the carpet. Boredom what an esthetic,
If you are still alive when you re… close your eyes. I am under their lids, growing black.
I don’t dare speak too loudly, some timbres could be fatal— that string is not too strong I think: and at times I have to breathe. Or maybe I fear
Our love has chosen its appropriat… Which when viewed in the midst of… It didn’t choose seems almost insi… The gesture our love has chosen is… We both agree not that we have any…
Hair is heaven’s water flowing eer… Often a woman drifts off down her…
Finally the day dawned when a mono… world So it went looking for its stockho… But they were all owned by it they… someplace
Poetry, you are an electric, a magic, field—like the space between a sleepwalker’s outheld ar…
Bending over like this to get my h… Rummaging through the white trashc… Of the Patent Office I find a ki… Here in this warm-lit alley where… Even the rats too they know that n…
'...here thy generations ende… I physically resemble my mother And father and therefore must have… Adopted, because on my TV screen The role-children rarely share a f…
Who whispers here is forgotten. Saliva’s emptiest fruit adorns the stones, words ripening your mouth to a spoilation
Meadow of matchsticks, soon to be rekindled by Spring the incendiary. The exact flame of your blossoms will ignite the passions
The only response to a child’s grave is to lie down before it and play dea…