There is only one story:

it is easy to be reasonable,to button the mouth against kisses,dust the breastswith talcum powder& forgetthe red pulp meatof the heart.On those daysit beatslike a digital clock-not a beat at allbut a steady whirringchilly as green neon,luminous as numerals in the dark,cool as electricity.& I think:I can live without it all-love with its blood pump,sex…

They are bluer than shadows in snow.They are bloodless as fear.Her fingernail moons are white.She wants to crawl into the palmof her own hand.She wants extra fingers to coverthe shame of her eyes.She wants to follow her lifeline where it leadsbut it plunges deeperthan the Grand Canyon.She stands on the edgestill hopingshe can fly.

gazing at the other worldunder the sea-that world of flickeringyellow-tailed fish,of deadly moray eels, of sea urchinslike black starsthat devastate great brainsof coral,of fish the colorof blue neon,& fish the colorof liquid silvermade by Indiansexterminatedcenturies ago.We pass, we pass,always looking down.The fish do notlook up at us,as if they knewsomehowtheir worldfor the eternal one,ours forthe…

the doctor,Love.He appearsas husband, loveranalyst & muse,as father, son& maybe even God& surely death.All this is true.The man you turn toin the darkis many men.This is an open secretwomen share& yet agree to hideas ifthey might thenhide it from themselves.I will not hide.I write in the nude.I name names.I am I.The doctor’s name is Love.

I have lainbetween your breasts,put my earto your sea-shell-whispering navel,& strained the salty marshesof your sexbetween my milk teeth.Then I’ve slept at last,my teeming headagainst your rocking thigh.Gentle angry motherpoetry,where could I turnfrom the terror of the nightbut to your sweet maddeningambivalence?Where could I restbut in your hurricane?who would always take me homebut you,sweeping off…

A bespectacled artist called LearFirst perfected this smile in a sneer.He was clever and witty;He gave life to this ditty –That original author called Lear.