#AmericanWriters
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,
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
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
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
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
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…
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