#AmericanWriters
This is the dirty laundry poem– because we have traveled from town… accumulating soiled linen & sw… & blue-jeans caked & clott… & teeshirts crumpled by our gl…
Baby-witch, my daughter, my worship of the Goddess alone condemns you to the fire. . .
Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover
Because you did, I too arrange fl… Watching the pistils just like ins… And the hard, red flesh of the pet… Widening beneath my eyes. They mo… Of clocks, seeming not to move exc…
After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…
Goddess, I come to you my neck wreathed with rosebuds, my head filled with visions of inf… my palms open to your silver nails… my eyes open to your rays of illum…
Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?
The man under the bed The man who has been there for yea… The man who waits for my floating… The man who is silent as dustballs… The man whose breath is the breath…
Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.
What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…
All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…
The old poet with his face full of lines, with iambs jumping in his hair lik… with all the revisions of his body unsaying him,
Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we