#AmericanWriters
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Beloveds, now we know that we know… Without notice, our dear love can… In the instant that Michael is go… Though we are many, each of us is… Only when we confess our confusion…
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since depart… Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here
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…
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
The night has been long, The wound has been deep, The pit has been dark, And the walls have been steep. Under a dead blue sky on a distant…
Funky blues Keen toed shoes High water pants Saddy night dance Red soda water
Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at th… slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
I’ve got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win