#AmericanWriters
‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,
Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
You operate on the afternoon You perform open heart surgery on the ghosts of your suicidal friends You divorce your parents
What is the central passion of a life? To please mummy & daddy? To find a home for their furniture… To found a family of one’s own,
I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)
This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’
There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.
Looking for a place where we might turn off the inner dialogue, the monologue of futures & regrets,
Books which are stitched up the ce… Books on the beach with sunglass-c… Books about food with pictures of… Books about baking bread with brow… Books about long-haired Frenchmen…
In the redwood house sailing off into the ocean, I sleep with you– our dreams mingling, our breath coming & going
She leaps into the alien heart of the passerby, the drunk, the girl who spouts Freudian talk over Szechuan food. She is part herself,
I am happiest near the ocean, where the changing light reminds me of my death & the fact that it need not be…