#AmericanWriters
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
Good morning, daddy! Ain’t you heard The boogie—woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely:
When a man starts out with nothing… When a man starts out with his han… Empty, but clean, When a man starts to build a world… He starts first with himself
Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. Since I come up North de
Remember The days of bondage— And remembering— Do not stand still. Go to the highest hill
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
You sicken me with lies, With truthful lies. And with your pious faces. And your wide, out—stretched, mock—welcome, Christian hands.
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
