#AmericanWriters
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
Funky blues Keen toed shoes High water pants Saddy night dance Red soda water
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
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
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,
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…
The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast And folks is smoking anything that… Some people wrap their lies around… And you sit wondering
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
We, this people, on a small and lo… Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way o… To a destination where all signs t… It is possible and imperative that…