Live or die, but don't poison everything.
I am not immortal. Faustus and I are the also-ran.
I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
You must be a poet,a lady of evil luckdesiring to be what you are not,longing to bewhat you can only visit.
A woman who writes feels too much.
Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
Meanwhile in my head, I'm undergoing open-heart surgery.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
I'm lost. And it's my own fault. It's about time I figured out that I can't ask people to keep me found.
Cinderella and the princelived, they say, happily ever after,like two dolls in a museum casenever bothered by diapers or dust,never arguing over the timing of an egg,never telling the same story twice....
I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
In a dream you are never eighty.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
this is no dreamjust my oily lifewhere the people are alibisand the street is unfindable for anentire lifetime.
Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
To tell the truthdays are all the same sizeand words aren't much company.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
I leave you, home,when I'm ripped from the doorstepby commerce or fate. Then I submitto the awful subway of the world....
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
I can only sign over everything,the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels,the soul, the family tree, the mailbox.Then I can sleep.Maybe.
emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea...
The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.
At sixI lived in a graveyard full of dolls,avoiding myself,my body, the suspectin its grotesque house.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.