#AmericanWriters
Now we, returning from the vaulted… Of our colossal sleep, come home t… A tall metropolis of catacombs Erected down the gangways of our m… Green alleys where we reveled have…
A garden of mouthings. Purple, sc… The great corollas dilate, peeling… Their musk encroaches, circle afte… A well of scents almost too dense… Hieratical in your frock coat, mae…
Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapabl…
Here in this valley of discrete ac… We have not mountains, but mounts,… To the Adirondacks, to northern M… Themselves mere rocky hillocks to… Still, they’re out best mustering…
No lame excuses can gloss over Barge—tar clotted at the tide—line… I should have known better. Fifteen years between me and the b… Profited memory, but did away with…
Enter the chilly no—man’s land of about Five o’clock in the morning, the no—color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar co...
Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble
By the gate with star and moon Worked into the peeled orange wood The bronze snake lay in the sun Inert as a shoelace; dead But pliable still, his jaw
Pocket watch, I tick well. The streets are lizardy crevices Sheer—sided, with holes where to h… It is best to meet in a cul—de—sac… A palace of velvet
The courage of the shut mouth, in… The line pink and quiet, a worm, b… There are black disks behind it, t… And the outrage of a sky, the line… The disks revolve, they ask to be…
Hearing a white saint rave About a quintessential beauty Visible only to the paragon heart, I tried my sight on an apple-tree That for eccentric knob and wart
That grandiose colossus who Stood astride The envious assaults of sea (Essaying, wave by wave, Tide by tide,
What is this, behind this veil, is… It is shimmering, has it breasts,… I am sure it is unique, I am sure… When I am quiet at my cooking I f… ‘Is this the one I am too appear…
Ravening through the persistent br… Of blunt pencils, rose-sprigged co… Postage stamps, stacked books’ cla… Neighborhood cockcrow —all nature’… The vaunting mind
With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth muc… After a lean day’s work Time comes round for that foul slu… Mere bruit of her takes our street