#AmericanWriters
I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
Again & again I have read your books without ever wishing to know you. I suck the alphabet of blood. I chew the iron filings of your wo…
"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,
What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…
Endless duplication of lives and o… —Theodore Roethke I have known the imperial power of… the awesome indifference of recept… I have been intimidated by desk &a…
For a long time unhappy with my man, I blamed men, blamed marriage, blamed the whole bleeding world,
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
The old poet with his face full of lines, with iambs jumping in his hair lik… with all the revisions of his body unsaying him,
Goddess, I come to you my neck wreathed with rosebuds, my head filled with visions of inf… my palms open to your silver nails… my eyes open to your rays of illum…
Because he dreams of seeding the w… his eyes bite She looks He looks away He is snow-blind from staring at her breasts
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,
You sleep in the darkness, you with the back I love & the gift of sleeping through my noisy nights of poetry. I have taken other men into my tho…
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,