I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)

You whom I hoped to reach by writ… you beyond the multicolored tangle of telephone wires, you with your white paper soul trampled in transit,

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,

I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–

He was six foot four, and forty… and even colder than he thought he… James Thurber, The Thirteen Cloc… Not that I cared about the other… Those perfumed breasts with hearts

Looking for a place where we might turn off the inner dialogue, the monologue of futures & regrets,

A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,

We sit on a rock to allow our souls to catch up with us. We have been traveling a long time.

You operate on the afternoon You perform open heart surgery on the ghosts of your suicidal friends You divorce your parents

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…

Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.

When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,

This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’

Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be

"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,