Sometimes when my eyes are red I go up on top of the RCA Building and gaze at my world, Manhattan— my buildings, streets I’ve…
“Gone mad is what they say, and sometimes Run mad, as if mad is a different direction, like west; as if mad is a different…
By: Robert Frost I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain — and back in rain. I have outwalked…
By: Wilfred Owen I Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers Or makes their…
My bones feel soft in the morning, pale under the light and the soft glow of the streetlights as they flicker out. Through the sun…
By: Lawrence Raab Making something the way it was— what could I have been thinking months ago when I wrote that line in my notebook?…
By: Timothy Murphy The night you died, I dreamed you came to camp to hear confession from an Eagle Scout tortured by forty years of…
By: Allen Ginsberg Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village….