#AmericanWriters
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived
When love is a shimmering curtain Before a door of chance That leads to a world in question Wherein the macabrous dance Of bones that rattle in silence
Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hip… Where bones idle under years of fa… And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since depart… Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here
Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you?
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and
You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,