I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
I burn the way money burns.
When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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.
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 objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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.
The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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.
I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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.
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