I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl; it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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.
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.
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.
Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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.
I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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