#AmericanWriters
I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,
We sit on a rock to allow our souls to catch up with us. We have been traveling a long time.
After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…
There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…
Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
Letting the mind go, letting the pen, the breath, the movement of images in & ou… of the mouth go calm, go rhythmic
I put our books face to face so they could talk. They whispered about us. I put yours on top of mine. They would not mate.
If it is impossible to promise absolute fidelity, this is because we learn so much geography from the shifting of one body
We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love
Looking for a place where we might turn off the inner dialogue, the monologue of futures & regrets,
All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be