#Americans #Suicide #Women #XXCentury
Like Oedipus I am losing my sight… Like Judas I have done my wrong. Their punishment is over; the shame and disgrace of it are all used up.
O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoo… with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom… with your mouth into the sheet,
I am the love killer, I am murdering the music we though… that blazed between us, over and o… I am murdering me, where I kneele… I am pushing knives through the ha…
Since you ask, most days I cannot… I walk in my clothing, unmarked by… Then the almost unnameable lust re… Even then I have nothing against… I know well the grass blades you m…
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like caulif… The bomb opens like a shoebox.
We are born with luck which is to say with gold in our m… As new and smooth as a grape, as pure as a pond in Alaska, as good as the stem of a green bea…
A red-hot needle hangs out of him, he steers by it as if it were a rudder, he would get in the house any way he… and then he would bounce from wind…
Put on a clean shirt before you die, some Russian said. Nothing with drool, please, no egg spots, no blood, no sweat, no sperm.
My business is words. Words are l… or coins, or better, like swarming… I confess I am only broken by the… as if words were counted like dead… unbuckled from their yellow eyes a…
Old man, it’s four flights up and… Your room is hardly bigger than yo… Puffing as you climb, you are a br… stooped over the thin tail and the… The room will do. All that’s left…
Come friend, I have an old story to tell you— Listen. Sit down beside me and listen. My face is red with sorrow
Who will forgive me for the things… With no special legend of God to… With my calm white pedigree, my ya… I think it would be better to be a… I forgive you for what you did not…
What is reality? I am a plaster doll; I pose with eyes that cut open without la… upon some shellacked and grinning… eyes that open, blue, steel, and c…
If I could blame it all on the we… the snow like the cadaver’s table, the trees turned into knitting nee… the ground as hard as a frozen had… the pond wearing its mustache of f…
Who is he? A railroad track toward hell? Breaking like a stick of furniture… The hope that suddenly overflows t… The love that goes down the drain…