#AmericanWriters
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering
If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…
All the boring tedious young men with dead eyes & dirty hair .… all the mad young men who hate the… all the squalling baby boys . . . have grown up
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.
I sleep with double pillows since… Is one of them for you-or is it yo… My bed is heaped with books of poe… I fall asleep on yellow legal pads… Oh the orgies in stationery stores…
The lessons we learned here (fumbling with our lunchbags, handkerchiefs & secret cheeks of bubblegum) were graver than any
Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…
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…
‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,
Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.
Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
The first snow of the year & you lying between my breasts in my husband’s house & the snow gently rising in my… like guilt,
Bobbing in the waters of the womb, little godhead, ten toes, ten fing… & infinite hope, sails upside down through the worl… My bones, I know, are only a cage
I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life