#AmericanWriters
You call me courageous, I who grew up gnawing on books, as some kids
I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me,
You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,
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…
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue
People wish to be settled. Onl… —Thoreau My life has been the instrument for a mouth
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,
My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c’e certezza. —Lorenzo di Medici In the poplars’ lengthening shadow… amid the rows of marigolds and ear…
the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing
Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.
A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,
For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,