God is only mocked by believers.
In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
O starry night, This is how I want to die
When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
I grow old on my bitterness.
Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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