#AmericanWriters
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.