#Americans #Modernism
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!