#AmericanWriters
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...