#AmericanWriters
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail