I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.
I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
Now I am here - now read me - give me a name.
Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.
I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.
Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.
I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.
out of great Russia came three dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die for: Bread, Peace, Land.
I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
The shovel is the brother to the gun.
Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.
Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.
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