#AmericanWriters
Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.
You are the first muse who came to… The others began & ended with… or a glance or a kiss between stan… the others strode away in the poin… or were kicked out by the stiletto…
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.
Love, death, sleeping with somebody else’s husband or wife-this is what poetry is about-Eskimo, Aztec,
Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.
I hear you will not fall in love w… because I come without a guarantee… because someday I may depart at wh… and leave you desolate, abandoned,… If that’s the case, what use to be…
If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…
The poet fears failure & so she says “Hold on pen— what if the critics hate me?”
He says he is a perfect poet. He lives alone, with his perfect m… & sometimes they don’t even sp… So perfectly do they ‘communicate.… He lives alone, his greatest pleas…
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,
This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’
He still wears the glass skin of c… Under his hands, the stones turn m… His eyes are knives. Who froze the ground to his feet? Who locked his mouth into an horiz…
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering