#AmericanWriters
A squeal of brakes. Or is it a birth cry? And here we are, hung out over the… Uncle, pants factory Fatso, milli… And you out cold beside me in your…
“I shall never get you put togethe… Pieced, glued, and properly jointe… Mule—bray, pig—grunt and bawdy cac… Proceed from your great lips. It’s worse than a barnyard.
The figs on the fig tree in the ya… Green, also, the grapes on the gre… Shading the brickred porch tiles. The money’s run out. How nature, sensing this, compound…
Enter the chilly no—man’s land of about Five o’clock in the morning, the no—color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar co...
Arena dust rusted by four bulls’ b… The afternoon at a bad end under t… The ritual death each time botched… stabs, The strongest will seemed a will t…
I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wast… What did they know that I didn’t?
Color floods to the spot, dull pur… The rest of the body is all washed… The color of pearl. In a pit of rock The sea sucks obsessively,
The smile of iceboxes annihilates… Such blue currents in the veins of… I hear her great heart purr. From her lips ampersands and perce… Exit like kisses.
Worship this world of watercolor m… in glass pagodas hung with veils o… where diamonds jangle hymns within… and sap ascends the steeple of the… A saintly sparrow jargons madrigal…
Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble
To his house the bodiless Come to barter endlessly Vision, wisdom, for bodies Palpable as his, and weighty. Hands moving move priestlier
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapabl…
Tell me what you see in it: The pine tree like a Rorschach—bl… black against the orange light: Plant an orange pumpkin patch which at twelve will quaintly hatc…
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo…