#AmericanWriters
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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...
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…