My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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.
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.
I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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