#AmericanWriters
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,