Some women marry houses.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
The sanest thing in this world is love.
Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
When I’m writing, I know I’m doing the thing I was born to do.
Somebody who should have been born is gone.