#AmericanWriters
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.