By Paul Allen
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Additional resources for American crawl: poems
After all, we tried anything on the outside, swilling the tapes of Victory At Sea or toward the end, napping at dawn, Westend, in efficiencies crawling with first names. So we gather like partisans at the door of the dark sound room with our pass word, yes. (Are you up on your medicines? In the odd dark, we design ourselves on the wall then the wall-to-wall mat, lying flat, allowing ourselves space between our selves to let tonight's recording do its work, usually a kind of water. Then lets us go back to our rooms Page 45 where despite what is best for us, despite the session and all the night's voice tried to do with the sea, we may, if we choose, close our doors, turn on our one lamp, and make bleating heads eating our walls all the shadow animals our hands can manage while we wait for a sleep of our own.
An assumption. e. there were some poems, small but bright enough to show up in the oil pan on Sunday afternoons; or they filled holes when I countersunk screws on my shelves late. Not then. That day he would not wonder what he would be doing had he stayed east, played a long run in The Man Who Was, or Peck's Bad Boy with the Chicago Play Company. Or maybe not. And maybe that is what is: Not to think about the life you aren't living for the dullard down south you don't know, and how he didn't hear of how you didn't growl one day.
And you will call them in to you. See what you got to do is wound one soon as possible, a young one full of fear and hurt, that still has strength with number 6 in his gut, one who'll fall but doesn't know enough to die and flops and carries on. His flapping and loud dying helps you out. The old ones (Watch yourself), it seems the fall kind of hurts them special; they bleed in the throat and don't say anything and give up quick. They just don't seem to care. I'm not saying miss. Nineteen, twenty feet and he'll know you're there and try to get away.