#AmericanWriters
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts
Beloveds, now we know that we know… Without notice, our dear love can… In the instant that Michael is go… Though we are many, each of us is… Only when we confess our confusion…
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
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
We, this people, on a small and lo… Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way o… To a destination where all signs t… It is possible and imperative that…
A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,
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,
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
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
We wear the mask that grins and li… It shades our cheeks and hides our… This debt we pay to human guile With torn and bleeding hearts… We smile and mouth the myriad subt…
Your skin like dawn Mine like musk One paints the beginning of a certain end. The other, the end of a
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,