#Americans #Jews #Women
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…
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,
Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.
Books which are stitched up the ce… Books on the beach with sunglass-c… Books about food with pictures of… Books about baking bread with brow… Books about long-haired Frenchmen…
You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,
My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,
The experience of fear is not an o… —J. Krishnamurti In dreams I descend into the cave of my past: a child with a morgue-tag
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
She was not a slender woman, but her skin was milk mixed in with strawberry jam & between her legs the word pu… & her hair was the color of wh…
The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears
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. .…
Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,
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 try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.