#AmericanWriters
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on