The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God..

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole..

Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we ….

My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witc….

Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?.

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 bles….

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole pr….

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind.

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die..

The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death..

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures a….

Death's in the good-bye..

Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off..

God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine..

The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up..

It is June. I am tired of being brave..

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it..

I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates..

My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more..

the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crè….

We are all writing God's poem..