#AmericanWriters
The sky, lazily disdaining to purs… The setting sun, too indolent to h… A lengthened tournament for flashi… Passively darkens for night’s barb… A feast of moon and men and barkin…
There is a natty kind of mind That slicks its thoughts, Culls its oughts, Trims its views, Prunes its trues,
A certain man wishes to be a princ… Of this earth; he also wants to be A saint and master of the being-wo… Conscience cannot exist in the fir… The second cannot exist without co…
whisper of yellow globes gleaming on lamp-posts that sway like bootleg licker drinkers in th… and let your breath be moist again… like bright beads on yellow globes
Black reapers with the sound of st… Are sharpening scythes. I see the… In their hip-pockets as a thing th… And start their silent swinging, o… Black horses drive a mower through…
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled. But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it. I have bee...
Whoever it was who brought the fir… To start the Fire, did his part w… Not all wood takes to fire from a… Nor coal from wood before it’s bur… The wood and coal in question caug…
Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk, When purple ribbons bind the hill, Do dreams your secret wish fulfill… Do prayers, like kernels from the… Come from your lips? Tell me if w…
Come, brother, come. Lets lift it… come now, hewit! roll away! Shackles fall upon the Judgment D… But lets not wait for it. God’s body’s got a soul,
Hair-braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher’s rope, Eyes-fagots, Lips-old scars, or the first red b… Breath-the last sweet scent of can…
Boll-weevil’s coming, and the wint… Made cotton-stalks look rusty, sea… And cotton, scarce as any southern… Was vanishing; the branch, so pinc… Failed in its function as the autu…
There is no transcience of twiligh… The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpl… No flicker of a slender flame in s… In crucibles, fragility crystallin… There is no fragrance of the jessa…
To those fixed on white, White is white, To those fixed on black, It is the same, And red is red,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks. Seventh Street is a bastrad of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, soft-skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer...
Pour O pour that parting soul in… O pour it in the sawdust glow of n… Into the velvet pine-smoke air ton… And let the valley carry it along. And let the valley carry it along.
