No matter how many times I paint my face with makeup or pile on nickel-plated jewelry, there are some things I’m not initiated into knowing.
Am I going to die and all I will have are these fucking poems
It doesn’t get more real than this
Said the poet
That’s a killer ape, just don’t
expect me to marinate it.
They are pouring laundry detergent in clouds over nurses and chefs and space shuttles and wedding dresses naming everything Whitehall and White Horse and Whitechapel and White Tower.
A typewriter is fine, another says, it is nothing like a constellation. No, but it is like the lines we’ve drawn between the stars to easier map the sky.
up from the depths
from a stone
whatever’s in it, you have to take all of it / into you before you can let go of it, into your whole / being, your whole being, you know.
is there a torment like the self
is there a secret like anger,
a sleep as liquid as bees striking, straining against the sun
all along planning to eat them animals as I do
I shiver / & shine in my thicket / of one.