Perhaps you have heard the rumors of big money in poetry Maybe that’s why everybody is writing it these days Even Emily Dickinson must have heard these rumors Myself, I suspected as much 50 years ago And started early to accumulate my hoard of poe

The fame of the underworld may spread its cheeks and blow out nearly every virgin’s candle, just so you know. But don’t let them take away our youth, even if we have to beat the paint out of birds, the way we did when we were young. I knew we could do any

Translation’s not required—music/ sings itself complete and comprehensible

Dream, swan, dream of your woman, whenever you get hold of her. Problem after problem lets up under the grip you have. And conquest without plan is what you’ve added to the world. So, share your songs under wild silk, won’t you? I remember there was hel

Our flesh was on fire like a flute with wind, or a little reed next to the dried river. I was like a voyeur whose heart was a sponge, brushing up against all that disturbed man. I was only and ever the flower of our notorious youth, aware of more than the

Me undressing at the side of the road, broken like an unstrung Sappho, blood lust going full force. Sexual organs like living rooms, exposed before God and everyone. Lights came on across the reservoir, and I was down on all fours in the cinders and dust,

you wait for her to damn you

Just another day The rain came from above Wishing I was far away To realize it's just love The echoing heartaches shatter these walls Breaking down the corridors of this lie I know I'm not the only one she calls There's no reason for me…