Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that li...
And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
Daddy daddy you bastard, i'm through
We'll act as if all this were a bad dream.A bad dream.To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.A bad dream.I remembered everything.I remembere...
Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' po...
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare...
Then my gaze slid over the people to the blaze of green beyond the diaphanous curtains, and I felt as if I were sitting in the window of an enormous department store. The figures around me weren't peo...
The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.
The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence. I knew perfectly well the cars were making noise, and the people in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings...
Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.Thirty years now I have laboredTo dredge the silt from your throat.I am none the wiser.
People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy o...
Miracles occur,If you dare to call those spasmodicTricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
Let me not be sentimental, let the distance in time give me humor and irony and a shrewd, if loving, eye.
I?I walk alone;The midnight streetSpins itself from under my feet;My eyes shutThese dreaming houses all snuff out;Through a whim of mineOver gables the moon's celestial onionHangs high.IMake houses sh...
I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.