#AmericanWriters
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
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
My man is Black Golden Amber Cha… Warm mouths of Brandy Fine Cautious sunlight on a patterned r… Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi… Graceful turns on woolen stilts S…
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
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
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,
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
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
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…
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing