Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
Rats live on no evil star
The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
In an old time there was a king as wise as a dictionary.
You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
All who love have lied.
When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Today life opened inside me like an egg.
One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is "Whatever you do, don't be boring."
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter ... Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
Even without wars, life is dangerous.
I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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