#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich