#AmericanWriters
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,
Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night
You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:
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…
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 not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way
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.
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
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,
On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,
Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,
If it is impossible to promise absolute fidelity, this is because we learn so much geography from the shifting of one body
Because he dreams of seeding the w… his eyes bite She looks He looks away He is snow-blind from staring at her breasts