#Americans #Jews #Women
Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…
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. .…
I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,
If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…
With his head full of Shakespeare… and old notions of poetic justice, he was ready with his elegies the day the ocean sailed into the… ‘The sea,’ he wrote, 'is a forgivi…
(a flip through BRIDE’s) The silver spoons were warbling their absurd musical names when, drawing back
For a long time unhappy with my man, I blamed men, blamed marriage, blamed the whole bleeding world,
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,
All the boring tedious young men with dead eyes & dirty hair .… all the mad young men who hate the… all the squalling baby boys . . . have grown up
People wish to be settled. Onl… —Thoreau My life has been the instrument for a mouth
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
Baby-witch, my daughter, my worship of the Goddess alone condemns you to the fire. . .
"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,