(1916)
#AmericanWriters #Modernism
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
