#AmericanWriters
There is no warning rattle at the… nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer… Safe in the dark prison, I know t… light slides over the fingered work of a toothless
Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at th… slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press
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
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you?
Beloveds, now we know that we know… Without notice, our dear love can… In the instant that Michael is go… Though we are many, each of us is… Only when we confess our confusion…
When love is a shimmering curtain Before a door of chance That leads to a world in question Wherein the macabrous dance Of bones that rattle in silence
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived