#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
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…
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
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…
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...
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices