#AmericanWriters
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
Shadows on the wall Noises down the hall Life doesn’t frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loud Big ghosts in a cloud
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,
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
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
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since depart… Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here
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
We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the stre… Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city