Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.
oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much
I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.
O my enormous piano, you are not like being outdoors
I have, for my own projected works and ideas, only the silliest and dewiest of hopes; no matter what, I am romantic enough or sentimental enough to wish to contribute something to life's fabric, to the world's beauty.... [S]imply to live does not justify existence, for life is a mere gesture on the surface of the earth, and death a return to that from which we had never been wholly separated; but oh to leave a trace, no matter how faint, of that brief gesture! For someone, some day, may find it beautiful!
It may be that poetry makes life's nebulous events tangible to me and restores their detail; or conversely, that poetry brings forth the intangible quality of incidents which are all too concrete and circumstantial. Or each on specific occasions, or both all the time.
Grace / to be born and live as variously as possible
And always embrace things, people earth sky stars, as I do, freely and with the appropriate sense of space.
the only truth is face to face, the poem whose words become your mouth and dying in black and white we fight for what we love, not are
When I die, don't come, I wouldn't want a leaf to turn away from the sun -- it loves it there. There's nothing so spiritual about being happy but you can't miss a day of it, because it doesn't last.
I embraced a cloud but when I soared it rained.
The stars fell one by one into his eyes and burnt.
Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas! / You really are beautiful! Pearls, / harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins!
I don't ... like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff. You just go on your nerve. If someone's chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don't turn around and shout, 'Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.'
I am not a painter. I am a poet. / Why? I think I would rather be / a painter, but I am not.
I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It's more important to confirm the least sincere. The clouds get enough attention as it is.
The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages. In all modesty, I confess that it may be the death of literature as we know it.
I wonder if the course of narcissism through the ages would have been any different had Narcissus first peered into a cesspool. He probably did.
You just go on your nerve.
I am always tying up and then deciding to depart.
A man was the cause of it all. An unarmed man with a weapon.
When I am feeling depressed and anxious sullen all you have to do is take your clothes off and all is wiped away revealing life tenderness that we are flesh and breathe and are near us as you are really as you are I become as I really am alive and knowing vaguely what is and what is important to me above the intrusions of incident and accidental relationships which have nothing to do with my life
life perpetuated in parti-colored loves and beautiful lies all in different languages.
I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up
Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.
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