#AmericanWriters
The lessons we learned here (fumbling with our lunchbags, handkerchiefs & secret cheeks of bubblegum) were graver than any
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:
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
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. .…
A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,
Because I am here anchoring you to the passionate darkness, you gaze out the window at the light.
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.
Next birthday I am thirty-six, & formed (for all intents & purposes) in tooth & claw.
Smoke, it is all smoke in the throat of eternity. . . . For centuries, the air was full of… Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms
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…
You take me to the restaurant wher… plays God over a fish tank. The f… pace their green cage, waiting to… out of an element. Who knows what… There are thirteen in a tank meant
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover
I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life
‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,