#AmericanWriters
‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,
You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy
This is the long tunnel of wanting… Its walls are lined with remembere… wet & red as the inside of you… full & juicy as your probing t… warm as your belly against mine,
We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love
I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly hungering
If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
Bobbing in the waters of the womb, little godhead, ten toes, ten fing… & infinite hope, sails upside down through the worl… My bones, I know, are only a cage
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
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,
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)
A delicate border. A nonexistent… The train obligingly dissolves in… The G.I. next to me is talking wa… I don’t ‘know the Asian mind,’ he… Moving through old arguments.
He still wears the glass skin of c… Under his hands, the stones turn m… His eyes are knives. Who froze the ground to his feet? Who locked his mouth into an horiz…
I mourn a dead friend, like myself… —Pablo Neruda about César Vallej… I looked at the book. ‘It will stand,’ I thought. Not a palace