#AmericanWriters
Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems
Nature will bear the closest inspe… —Thoreau The raspberries in my driveway have always
Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…
I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)
I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,
You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
I had pegged you as protégé, adoptee, someone I could save. The last thing I needed
For all those who died– stripped naked, shaved, shorn. For all those who screamed in vain to the Great Goddess only to have their tongues
For David Karetsky (April 14, 19… Putting the skis down in the white snow, the wind singing, the blizzard of time
(a flip through BRIDE’s) The silver spoons were warbling their absurd musical names when, drawing back
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…
Letting the mind go, letting the pen, the breath, the movement of images in & ou… of the mouth go calm, go rhythmic
A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue