I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You’re going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
I’ve grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by.
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.
Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins...
Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket...
Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand...
I leave you, home, when I’m ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world...