#Americans #Jews #Women
You hate the telephone but will not see me face to face so I am left beseeching you
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.
What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,
This is the long tunnel of wanting… Its walls are lined with remembere… wet & red as the inside of you… full & juicy as your probing t… warm as your belly against mine,
Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?
The house of the body is a stately manor open for nothing never to the public. But
I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)
After the college reading, the eager students gather. They ask me
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:
There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.
Because she wants to touch him, she moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent. Because she wants to kiss him,
Because he dreams of seeding the w… his eyes bite She looks He looks away He is snow-blind from staring at her breasts
Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,
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…