For your sake, son, let us approach truth from an angle, pretend to see nothing but its corner, maybe half a narrow hall through an open door; then dread won’t overwhelm you when beauty in her fanged and piercing splendor breathes and blinks with a thousand eyes.
Oh city of words, spiked with steel towers of tongue, will you? I want, when I walk, to feel your roof gardens like grassblades sinking and bending beneath my toe. I want to mount an ear on your east shore and your west, possess what lies between the pearly gates of skull.
to speak sword For sword (and blood for blood and).
What is sharper: Love Tinged, crusty, boxed in the attic (Where a frustrated fly-family Holds council, one posing Will our generation survive Another war-drought? another Laughing, Why fear now?) or love That loves each equally, neighbor and son, Justice without favor striking Each, and, finally, his own, head?
Like cotton humbled by long tender days into thin sheets like sky or cloud or fog, my voice slips upward, floating half- tattered familiar folds from feet, from knees, from cold scarred skin, fluttering in goodbye kisses, or trembling to think of the hands of God, her new possessor.
Wake me, wake me; there is only so much dreaming can do. The way mirrors can only mirror and mouths mouth and people can only live. I have noticed that freedom often sounds like a rope. Or a fence. But gravity
is like a rope, or a fence, or a stern hand. I banned it from my world but I want it back; even my feet long for a place they must stand; I shake and twitch, running in my sleep, sleep-jumping.
I am like the girl with the glasses with the pink dress I cannot begin a sentence with any other character but I. I cannot do very much, I cannot love though love reaches his hands to me and into me every day (I think I have room enough but the doors refuse to open). I think there is something wrong with me the girl in the pink dress is circling her mother’s ponytail with jealous intent and holding her around the neck. I’m sorry for her eyes and I wish I could… but at least she has a pink dress, and little white shoes, I can’t wait to get alone where I can believe I can something and there’s no one to think No. But there will be no one to do for, just like there is no one inside (I never thought so little would be too much) to do for and when I get the chance I don’t do anything. I have a friend on medication that’s supposed to help her stand up but she doesn’t, or won’t, and I am not like her I am like the girl with the glasses.
Perched on the edge of a desert plateau like a rampant baby on a high-chair high, smiling. Why does the child raise her fists? What is there to be gained by this? And she flings a pale arm forward, too
I have embittered the morning, and I am sorry. There are so many things I can’t do, and I guess because this isn’t one of them, I did it, I tore through the heart of day, trying to make her feel. The sunrise turned red and when I held up my hand to it, there was no eclipse, there was only red. I am deeply sorry. I destroy myself. Even what I understand I destroy.
And sense of self should cry out Self! and Self! and Self! and we should sit darkly only so long that nirvana can slip from a bed and ceiling of ego away. It’s not that I love you: I want you to love me; let me impress you; let impressions of me lie like treadmarks across your face, over your eyes and between your fingers and around your waist. Please, do not let me waste away.
echoed in the hollow of her ear. And thoughts powerful-like banging, the break of apathy like hammers through white-wall, plaster everywhere. I wish I could collect my thoughts. The range of rages happens to include self-hate, along with less obvious and more subtle and more redundant forms of fall-and-break, like cute animals that eat each others’ eggs and ugly animals who dig to hide so long and deep they lose their sight, and mosquitoes. There is nothing good about mosquitoes except their deaths, and watching them try. I saw a man with one of them, huge, tattooed on his forearm, right next to the skull of a jester, optic nerves hanging like umbilical cords or tether-ball strings. Now what does that tell you about mosquitoes? Unless it is surgically removed, that man will die one day and mosquitoes from Mozambique to Maine will take the credit, buzzing.
And what was my thought, when the question came? To hold to him who cannot help me— turn toward the outer man who broke me— in toward the one who let me break. And was I wise? Maybe, since wisdom now is loving yourself to death.
The marriage ended and no one took responsibility, though both parties, three lawyers, a judge, and the neighbor’s son offered. They’d been drinking coffee in the court kitchen together and realized that nothing can end that never started, and started unremembering. And that’s why we don’t use member today but the less violent family p(i)e(a)ce.