#AmericanWriters
Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?
All the boring tedious young men with dead eyes & dirty hair .… all the mad young men who hate the… all the squalling baby boys . . . have grown up
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
You operate on the afternoon You perform open heart surgery on the ghosts of your suicidal friends You divorce your parents
If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we
Dearest man-in-the-moon, ever since our lunch of cheese & moonjuice on the far side of the sun, I have walked the craters of New…
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…
It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books
The decorum of fire... —Pablo Neruda We learned the decorum of fire, the flame’s curious symmetry, the blue heat at the center of the…
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink,
This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’
You whom I hoped to reach by writ… you beyond the multicolored tangle of telephone wires, you with your white paper soul trampled in transit,
I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.
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…