#AmericanWriters
Now, moving in, cartons on the flo… the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled squares where pain… and something reminding us
Your slit so like mine: the woman of it, the warm womanwide of thigh, & the comfort of it– knowing your nipples like mine,
All night he lies awake tuning the… tuning the night with its fat crac… with its melancholy love songs cro… across the rainy air above Verdun & the autobahn’s blue suicidal…
In the redwood house sailing off into the ocean, I sleep with you– our dreams mingling, our breath coming & going
Because I am here anchoring you to the passionate darkness, you gaze out the window at the light.
Is God the one who eats the meat off the bones of dead people? —Molly Miranda Jong—Fast, age 3… God is the one, Molly,
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…
We have a small sculpture of H… Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what h… Edith Wharton’s obfuscating older… He fled the demons
You hate the telephone but will not see me face to face so I am left beseeching you
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
We sit on a rock to allow our souls to catch up with us. We have been traveling a long time.
I want to understand the steep thi… that climbs ladders in your throat… I can’t make sense of you. Everywhere I look you’re there— a vast landmark, a volcano
If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…
Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night
People wish to be settled. Onl… —Thoreau My life has been the instrument for a mouth