#AmericanWriters
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
A bespectacled artist called Lear First perfected this smile in a sn… He was clever and witty; He gave life to this ditty - That original author called Lear.
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…
If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we
Letting the mind go, letting the pen, the breath, the movement of images in & ou… of the mouth go calm, go rhythmic
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…
At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created
She leaps into the alien heart of the passerby, the drunk, the girl who spouts Freudian talk over Szechuan food. She is part herself,
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,
For Naomi Lazard Sometimes I can’t wait until I… —Naomi Lazard My friends are tired. The ones who are married are tired
We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill to your house,
Broken ivories playing the blue piano of the sea. We have come
For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,
Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,