Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
My mouth blooms like a cut.
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.
God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
Rats live on no evil star
The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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.
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