I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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.
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.
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.
stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
I burn the way money burns.
I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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.
Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
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