#Americans #Jews #Women
This is the dirty laundry poem– because we have traveled from town… accumulating soiled linen & sw… & blue-jeans caked & clott… & teeshirts crumpled by our gl…
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,
Because he dreams of seeding the w… his eyes bite She looks He looks away He is snow-blind from staring at her breasts
center The best slave does not need to be beaten. She beats herself. Not with a leather whip,
I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
We have a small sculpture of H… Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what h… Edith Wharton’s obfuscating older… He fled the demons
Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?
Your slit so like mine: the woman of it, the warm womanwide of thigh, & the comfort of it– knowing your nipples like mine,
The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink,
She left him in death’s egg, the bone sack & the gunny sack… the bag of down & feathers-all… Somehow he couldn’t get back. It was night,
I hear you will not fall in love w… because I come without a guarantee… because someday I may depart at wh… and leave you desolate, abandoned,… If that’s the case, what use to be…