full complement offingers, toes,little rose bloomingin a red universe,which once wanted you lessthan emptiness,but now holds youfast,containing your rapid heartbeat under itsslower oneas the earthcontains the sea…O avocado pitalmost ready to sprout,tiny fruit treewithin sightof the sea,little swimming fish,little land lover,hold on!hold on!Here, under my heartyou’ll keeptill it’s timefor us to meet,& we come apartthat…
the inner dialogue,the monologueof futures & regrets,of pasts not past enough& futures that may never cometo pass,we found this boatbobbing in the blue,this refuge amid reefs,this white hullwithin this azure sibilance of sea,this central rockingso like the rockingbefore birth.Venus was born of the waters,borne over themto teach us about love-our only sailon the seas of…
‘Hello. Hello. Hello.You’re getting there,’ it says,‘step by step.’Legs aren’t starswhich sputter out& go on gleaming anyway.I’ve lived, of course,with phantom limbsbut this fracturedoesn’t point toamputation. No.It hisses at somethingmuch more final.Skin lantern,necklace of teeth,the bones & sinewsare in revolt against us.We keep them downwith little bribes:vitamins, penicillin,& now these pounds of plaster,but they will…
my head filled with visions of infants,my palms open to your silver nails,my eyes open to your rays of illumination,my vagina & my womb gapingto be filled by your radiance. . .O goddess, I would be a worthy vessel.Impermanence- all is impermanence.The cock rises to fall again;the woman fills only to emptyin a convulsion that…
beautiful America-mesas, deserts,peaks with clouds caughtupon them,the Continental Dividewhere a dropp of rainmust decidewhether to roll east or westlike the rest of us.I speak to a groupof avid, aging Californiansabout daring to embracethe second half of life.The passions of the oldare deeperthan any wellsthe young can plumb.Meanwhile, you are dyingin New York Hospital-your beautiful face…
to bitterness.My mother, the bitter,whose bitter lesson-trust no one,especially no male-caused me to be naivefor too many years,in mere rebellionagainst that bitterness.If she was Medea,I would be Candide& bleed in every sexual war,& water my garden with menstrual blood& grow the juiciest fruits.(Like the womanwho watered her roses with blood& won all the prizes,though no…
as I used to doon many sunday afternoonswhen you came back to me,your arms ached for me,and your arms would close me inthough they smelled of other women.I think of youon Sunday afternoons.Your sweet head would bow,like a child somehow,down to me –and your hair and your eyes were wild.We would embrace on the floor-You…
