Pues es un buen poeta.. os dejo algunos poemas y espero que les gusten... Tienen como un sentido de vanguardismo y algo cosmopolita.... Ciaoooooooo!

**Comenten!

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work---
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.

By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and has a soul.
Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into it and they mingle
among its twenty floors and are poured out again back to the streets,
prairies and valleys.
It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and out all day that
give the building a soul of dreams and droughts and memories.
(Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care for the building or
speak its name or ask a policeman the way to it?)

Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and parcels and iron
pipes carry gas and water in and sewage out.
Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words, and tell terrors and
profits and loves-curses of men grappling plans of business and questions of
women in plots of love.

Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rack of the earth and hold the
building to a turning planet.
Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and hold together the
stone walls and floors.
Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the mortar clinch the
pieces and parts to the shape an architect voted.
Hour by hour the sun and the rain, the air and the rust, and the press of time
running into centuries, play on the building inside and out and use it.
Men who sunk the pilings and mixed the mortar are laid in graves where the
wind whistles a wild song without words
And so are men who strung the wires and fixed the pipes and tubes and
those who saw it rise floor by floor.
Souls of them all are here, even the hod carrier begging at back doors
hundreds of miles away and the bricklayer who went to state’s prison for
shooting another man while drunk.
(One man fell from a girder and broke his neck at the end of a straight
plunge—he is here—his soul has gone into the stones of the building.)

On the office doors from tier to tier—hundreds of names and each name
standing for a face written across with a dead child, a passionate lover, a
driving ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster’s ease of life.

Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls tell nothing from
room to room.
Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from corporation officers,
lawyers, efficiency engineers, and tans of letters go bundled from the
building to all ends of the earth.
Smiles and tears of each office girl go into the soul of the building just the
same as the master-men who rule the building.
Hands of clocks turn to noon hours and each floor empties its men and
women who go away and eat and come back to work.
Toward the end of the afternoon all work slackens and all jobs go slower as
the people feel day closing on them.
One by one the floors are emptied... The uniformed elevator men are gone.
Pails clang... Scrubbers work, talking in foreign tongues. Broom and water
and mop clean from the floors human dust and spit, and machine grime of
the day.
Spelled in electric fire on the roof are words telling miles of houses and
people where to buy a thing for money. The sign speaks till midnight.

Darkness on the hallways. Voices echo. Silence holds... Watchmen walk
slow from floor to floor and try the doors. Revolvers bulge from their hip
pockets... Steel safes stand in corners. Money is stacked in them.
A young watchman leans at a window and sees the lights of barges butting
their way across a harbor, nets of red and white lanterns in a railroad yard,
and a span of glooms splashed with lines of white and blurs of crosses and
clusters over the sleeping city.
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.

Six Street ends come together here.
They feed people and wagons into the center.
In and out all day horses with thoughts of nose-bags.
Men with shovels, women with baskets and baby buggies.
Six ends of streets and no sleep for them all day.
The people and wagons come and go, out and in.
Triangles of banks and drug stores watch.
The policemen whistle, the trolley cars bump.
Wheels, wheels, feet, feet, all day.

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted
women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the
gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and
children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered 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.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall
bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted
against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs
the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked,
sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Slacker of Wheat, Player
with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.