Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling “Oh.” I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.
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