#AmericanWriters
He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make it honky’s blue eyes squint
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
My man is Black Golden Amber Cha… Warm mouths of Brandy Fine Cautious sunlight on a patterned r… Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi… Graceful turns on woolen stilts S…
Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at th… slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of lonelines… until love leaves its high holy te… and comes into our sight
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
They went home and told their wive… that never once in all their lives… had they known a girl like me, But... They went home. They said my house was licking cle…
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
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…
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
There is no warning rattle at the… nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer… Safe in the dark prison, I know t… light slides over the fingered work of a toothless
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,