#AmericanWriters
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
Shadows on the wall Noises down the hall Life doesn’t frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loud Big ghosts in a cloud
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
Pretty women wonder where my secre… I’m not cute or built to suit a fa… But when I start to tell them, They think I’m telling lies. I say,
Soft grey ghosts crawl up my sleev… to peer into my eyes while I within deny their threats and answer them with lies. Mushlike memories perform
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since depart… Marked the mastodon, The dinosaur, who left dried token… Of their sojourn here
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
My man is Black Golden Amber Cha… Warm mouths of Brandy Fine Cautious sunlight on a patterned r… Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi… Graceful turns on woolen stilts S…
Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hip… Where bones idle under years of fa… And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
Funky blues Keen toed shoes High water pants Saddy night dance Red soda water