#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge