#AmericanWriters
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived
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
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
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
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
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
Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts
Shadows on the wall Noises down the hall Life doesn’t frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loud Big ghosts in a cloud
Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hip… Where bones idle under years of fa… And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation
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?
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,