#AmericanWriters
ZEUS: It is to be assumed that I do not exist while most people in the vision assume that I do exist. This is to be one of the extents of meaning between the players and the audience. I...
These letters are to be as temporary as our poetry is to be permanent. They will establish the bulk, the wastage that my sour-stomached contemporaries demand to help them swallow and...
Listen, you silk-hearted bastard, I said in the bar last night, You wear those dream clothes Like a swan out of water. Listen, you wool-feathered bastard…
A Translation for Robert Jone… A diamond Is there At the heart of the moon or the br… And there is nothing in the univer…
The bartender Has eyes the color of ripe apricot… Easy to please as a cash register… Enjoys art and good jokes. Squish
Rest and look at this goddamned wh… It is. Dogs and crocodiles, sunla… For their significance. For their significant. For being… The signs escape you. You, who ar…
A Postscript for Marianne Moo… No one exactly knows Exactly how clouds look in the sky Or the shape of the mountains belo… Or the direction in which fish swi…
This ocean, humiliating in its dis… Tougher than anything. No one listens to poetry. The oce… Does not mean to be listened to.… Or crash of water. It means
Hush now baby don’t say a word Mama’s going to buy you a mocking… The third Joyful mystery. The joy that descends on you when…
Coming at an end, the lovers Are exhausted like two swimmers.… Did it end? There is no telling.… Like an ocean with the dizzy proce… From which two can emerge exhauste…
The trouble with comparing a poet with a radio is that radios don’t develop scar-tissue. The tubes burn out, or with a transistor, which most souls are, the battery or diagram burns o...
Sharp as an arrow Orpheus Points his music downward. Hell is there At the bottom of the seacliff. Heal
When the trains come into strange… The citizens come out to meet the… I love you, Jack, he said I love you, Jack, he said At another station.
A Translation for Steve Jonas… Along East River and the Bronx The kids were singing, showing off… At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide,… Ninety thousand miners were drawin…
What can I say to you, darling, When you ask me for help? I do not even know the future Or even what poetry We are going to write.