#AmericanWriters
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
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…
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
I’ve got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry
When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big jok… A dance that’s walked A song that’s spoke,
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?
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the stre… Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
We, this people, on a small and lo… Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way o… To a destination where all signs t… It is possible and imperative that…
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that