#AmericanWriters
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
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
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
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?
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…
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
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
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
Shadows on the wall Noises down the hall Life doesn’t frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loud Big ghosts in a cloud
A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived