#AmericanWriters
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
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...
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides