#AmericanWriters
I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life
We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill to your house,
. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when… and tangled in a woman’s body? —Virginia Woolf Every month,
For David Karetsky (April 14, 19… Putting the skis down in the white snow, the wind singing, the blizzard of time
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.
Smoke, it is all smoke in the throat of eternity. . . . For centuries, the air was full of… Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms
This is the dirty laundry poem– because we have traveled from town… accumulating soiled linen & sw… & blue-jeans caked & clott… & teeshirts crumpled by our gl…
It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books
You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,
(a flip through BRIDE’s) The silver spoons were warbling their absurd musical names when, drawing back
The experience of fear is not an o… —J. Krishnamurti In dreams I descend into the cave of my past: a child with a morgue-tag
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