#AmericanWriters
Thunder blossoms gorgeously above… Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, Rumbling in the wind, Stretching clappers to strike our… Full-lipped flowers
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…
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…
To those fixed on white, White is white, To those fixed on black, It is the same, And red is red,
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,
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…
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.
African Guardian of Souls, Drunk with rum, Feasting on strange cassava, Yielding to new words and a weak p… Of a white-faced sardonic god—
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...
Spatial depths of being survive The birth to death recurrences Of feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance survive The sand; the sand, elect, survive…
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…
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...
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…
