#AmericanWriters
With his head full of Shakespeare… and old notions of poetic justice, he was ready with his elegies the day the ocean sailed into the… ‘The sea,’ he wrote, 'is a forgivi…
Rising in the morning like warm bread, from a bed in America, the aroma
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
I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,
The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams
Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
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…
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…
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…
If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we
Sweet muse with bitter milk, I have lain between your breasts, put my ear