This is the desk I sit at and this is the desk where I love you too much and this is the typewriter that sits before me where yesterday only…
for Sylvia Plath O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoons, with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom, with your mouth into the…
“You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is a matter of my life” – Artaud “At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers to…
Mole, angel-dog of the pit, digging six miles a night, what’s up with you in your sooty suit, where’s your kitchen at? I find you at the edge of our…
I knew you forever and you were always old, soft white lady of my heart. Surely you would scold me for sitting up late, reading your letters, as if these…
No matter what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhone, rolling…
My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web, as doth the vine, twiggy and wooden, hold…
My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees. I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; as if words were…
Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out. No bigger than a two-year-old whom you’d call lamb chop yet this one is old and…