Though I dream of sleeping beside you, The dream is even greater, To wake up In the morning With you by my side And know that you stayed By my flesh and bones All through the night.
There are days I know I am alive only because I feel the weight on my feet as I rise to have a new day accept me. It is when I read poems of Louise Gluck or Sharon Olds that I realize I am merely one half
Be wary of men who say your eyes are those of morning poppy blossoms because they only want to eat pizza with you, take you to bed, have you diaper their babies, scour the sink, paint the bathroom, wash their socks and when they are old and brains knitted with dementia, you will walk them to the toilet and lead them to ****. This is mostly truth.
I like poems that smell of milk that is about to curdle. Not with enough bacteria to **** you, but enough to make you wince and heave. Spoiled sufficiency you
want to apologize to God or at least explain every despicable thing you knew of and did not
As a boy growing up in rural Iowa I thought love was curve of neck, tone of voice, hang of breast, thick of hair, length of step, temperature of hand, hue of skin, size of soul; I still think so.
I'm finding replicas of you in my insomnia Smoke pouring from my nose A manifestation of self destruction
The fear of death playing my lover Sleeping on my bed sheets in my place There is no shelf for my carousel thoughts Heart of alternating magnetic poles
The quiet and the noise of night Condradictons becoming rule of life Forgetting how to breathe But still remebring you in this insomnia