#AmericanWriters
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of lonelines… until love leaves its high holy te… and comes into our sight
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
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,
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
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
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…
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
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
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone