Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle...
I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman’s yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover...
The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
Please God, we’re all right here. Please leave us alone. Don’t send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you...
Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn’t come back.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made...
Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death...