#AmericanWriters
Pretty women wonder where my secre… I’m not cute or built to suit a fa… But when I start to tell them, They think I’m telling lies. I say,
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
We wear the mask that grins and li… It shades our cheeks and hides our… This debt we pay to human guile With torn and bleeding hearts… We smile and mouth the myriad subt…
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
They went home and told their wive… that never once in all their lives… had they known a girl like me, But... They went home. They said my house was licking cle…
The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast And folks is smoking anything that… Some people wrap their lies around… And you sit wondering
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts
Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at th… slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press
There is no warning rattle at the… nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer… Safe in the dark prison, I know t… light slides over the fingered work of a toothless
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?