#AmericanWriters
All night he lies awake tuning the… tuning the night with its fat crac… with its melancholy love songs cro… across the rainy air above Verdun & the autobahn’s blue suicidal…
Books which are stitched up the ce… Books on the beach with sunglass-c… Books about food with pictures of… Books about baking bread with brow… Books about long-haired Frenchmen…
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams
At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…
If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…
I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life
Broken ivories playing the blue piano of the sea. We have come
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 a long time unhappy with my man, I blamed men, blamed marriage, blamed the whole bleeding world,
If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we
I had pegged you as protégé, adoptee, someone I could save. The last thing I needed
You operate on the afternoon You perform open heart surgery on the ghosts of your suicidal friends You divorce your parents
You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,
Is God the one who eats the meat off the bones of dead people? —Molly Miranda Jong—Fast, age 3… God is the one, Molly,