#AmericanWriters
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
I’ve got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry
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
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
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at th… slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press
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
Shadows on the wall Noises down the hall Life doesn’t frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loud Big ghosts in a cloud
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
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
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,