#AmericanWriters
‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,
I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue
You gave me the child that seamed my belly & stitched up my life. You gave me: one book of love poem… five years of peace
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…
Handcuffed by time, I travel across this broad beautiful America– mesas, deserts, peaks with clouds caught
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
Nature will bear the closest inspe… —Thoreau The raspberries in my driveway have always
You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,
After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink,
the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing
For Naomi Lazard Sometimes I can’t wait until I… —Naomi Lazard My friends are tired. The ones who are married are tired
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…
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,