#AmericanWriters
The night has been long, The wound has been deep, The pit has been dark, And the walls have been steep. Under a dead blue sky on a distant…
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
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big jok… A dance that’s walked A song that’s spoke,
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?
They went home and told their wive… that never once in all their lives… had they known a girl like me, But... They went home. They said my house was licking cle…
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 dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
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
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,