#AmericanWriters
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
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
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
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,
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
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
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
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,
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
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