#AmericanWriters
(a flip through BRIDE’s) The silver spoons were warbling their absurd musical names when, drawing back
Narrowing life because of the fear… narrowing it between the dust mote… narrowing the pink baby between the green-limbed monsters, & the drooling idiots,
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,
I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue
The poet fears failure & so she says “Hold on pen— what if the critics hate me?”
Mute marriages: the ten-ton block of ice obstructing the throat, the heart, the red filter of the liver, the clogged life.
A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,
What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,
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.
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…
I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–
At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,
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. .…
Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink,