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I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading - treading - till it seemed That Sense was breaking through - And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum - Kept beating - beating - till I thought My mind was going numb - And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space - began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race, Wrecked, solitary, here - And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down - And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing - then -

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

a boy sees himself in the river Read more

Dear Sirs: I have been enjoying the law and order of our community throughout the past three months since my wife and I, our two cats, and miscellaneous photographs of the six grandchildren belonging to our previous neighbors (with whom we were very close) arrived in Saratoga Springs which is clearly prospering under your custody Indeed, until yesterday afternoon and despite my vigilant casting about, I have been unable to discover a single instance of reasons for public-spirited concern, much less complaint You may easily appreciate, then, how it is that I write to your office, at this date, with utmost regret for the lamentable circumstances that force my hand Speaking directly to the issue of the moment: I have encountered a regular profusion of certain unidentified roses, growing to no discernible purpose, and according to no perceptible control, approximately one quarter mile west of the Northway, on the southern side To be specific, there are practically thousands of the aforementioned abiding in perpetual near riot of wild behavior, indiscriminate coloring, and only the Good Lord Himself can say what diverse soliciting of promiscuous cross-fertilization As I say, these roses, no matter what the apparent background, training, tropistic tendencies, age, or color, do not demonstrate the least inclination toward categorization, specified allegiance, resolute preference, consideration of the needs of others, or any other minimal traits of decency May I point out that I did not assiduously seek out this colony, as it were, and that these certain unidentified roses remain open to viewing even by children, with or without suitable supervision (My wife asks me to append a note as regards the seasonal but nevertheless seriously licentious phenomenon of honeysuckle under the moon that one may apprehend at the corner of Nelson and Main However, I have recommended that she undertake direct correspondence with you, as regards this: yet another civic disturbance in our midst) I am confident that you will devise and pursue appropriate legal response to the roses in question If I may aid your efforts in this respect, please do not hesitate to call me into consultation Respectfully yours,

Today I got hit by a car. I feel pity for my conscience. Things were going well. I was reading on the metro. Three stops from my destination. The lady asked me to wait before turning the page. Roots planted, swaying in unison. They don't make eye contact. Seaweed moving in the ocean. Trumpeter plays the same song. People walk by the rhythm. You go up and the sounds fade. The end of the day it crescendos. Jazz playing, snow falling. Cars drive by. Coffee is cooling off. The door opens. The cold air grabs my neck. I shouldn’t have sat by the window. A cigarette burns, the snow lands on the ashes. Sitting on a concrete bench watching people look at the snow like they have never seen it before. A man walks by and he smiles. The all-white outfit resembles a hospital gown. Where did he come from? Another sip to try and stay warm in the snow. The cigarette is almost out. The exhale of smoke fills the empty cup. Will there be any more cigarettes?

Colors fly by, shoulders to eye. Sitting backwards on the train, same routine. No one's eyes are connecting, As the colors fly by from behind. You arrive at the same place, Same time, same stop. Same people? No one can answer, no one uses their eyes. I know where I need to go. I know where I need. I know where. I know. I.

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

I want to write something so simply about love or about pain that even as you are reading you feel it and as you read you keep feeling it and though it be my story it will be common, though it be singular it will be known to you so that by the end you will think— no, you will realize— that it was all the while yourself arranging the words, that it was all the time words that you yourself, out of your own heart had been saying.

I did think, let’s go about this slowly. This is important. This should take some really deep thought. We should take small thoughtful steps. But, bless us, we didn’t.

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

Your lip an abstraction of iris always arousing the question of the bed. Which goodbye lasts? Only yesterday my hands rich with dirt. I told you Milkweed is my new salvation addiction. You know I always need to save something, to control it. I can make a pollen island, make your collarbone a spiritual landscape, the air around us orange and alive. The shape you left in the sheets a Rorschach I read as a rattlesnake’s skeleton in the silverware drawer, no, a fire in a cabin, no, a cabin on fire, the absence it will make. But look at me now, my heat signature a whole bouquet of howling, straddling scarves of smoke.

the stars say to the earth 'I have fooled you with old light' the waves say to the shore 'I have crashed into you' the leaves say to the branch 'I have left you, and I am sorry for it all' how sorry would they be that its fall

when i was little i didn’t think that i would be ok with the unknown never knowing where i would lie the characters needed depth each story having an arc with the perfect ending for a girl like me and never having to sit alone in the dark but now the grey isn’t a void its a warmth and ease where the world is slow and i don’t need to know if i end up pleased the story is winding its taking its time and the twists aren’t to trick but to give me room to change my mind maybe i like this story better

I left my city for San Francisco Took a free ride off a billionaire's jet LA, I'm from nowhere, who am I to love you? LA, I've got nothing, who am I to love you when I'm feeling this way and I've got nothing to offer? LA, not quite the city that never sleeps Not quite the city that wakes, but the city that dreams, for sure If by dreams, you mean in nightmares LA, I'm a dreamer, but I'm from nowhere, who am I to dream? LA, I'm upset, I have complaints, listen to me They say I came from money and I didn't And I didn't even have love, and it's unfair LA, I sold my life rights for a big check and I'm upset And now I can't sleep at night and I don't know why Plus, I love Zach, so why did I do that when I know it won't last? LA, I picked San Francisco because the man who doesn't love me lives there LA, I'm pathetic, but so are you, can I come home now? Daughter to no one, table for one Party of thousands of people I don't know at Delilah where my ex-husband works I'm sick of this, but can I come home now? Mother to no one, private jet for one Back home to the Tudor house that borned a thousand murder plots Hancock Park, it's treated me very badly, I'm resentful The witch on the corner, the neighbor nobody wanted The reason for Garcetti's extra security LA, I know I'm bad, but I have nowhere else to go, can I come home now? I never had a mother, will you let me make the sun my own for now, and the ocean my son? I'm quite good at tending to things despite my upbringing, can I raise your mountains? I promise to keep them greener, make them my daughters Teach them about fire, warn them about water I'm lonely, LA, can I come home now? I left my city for San Francisco And I'm writing from the Golden Gate Bridge But it's not going as I planned I took a free ride off a billionaire and brought my typewriter And promised myself that I would stay, but It's just not going the way that I thought It's not that I feel different, and I don't mind that it's not hot It's just that I belong to no one, which means there's only one place for me The city not quite awake, the city not quite asleep The city that's still deciding how good it can be And also I can't sleep without you No one's ever really held me like you Not quite tightly, but certainly, I feel your body next to me Smoking next to me Vaping lightly next to me And I love that you love the neon lights like me Orange in the distance We both love that And I love that we have that in common Also, neither one of us can go back to New York For you are unmoving As for me, it won't be my city again until I'm dead Fuck the New York Post LA, who am I to need you when I've needed so much, asked for so much? And what I've been given, I'm not sure yet I may never know that either until I'm dead For now, though, what I do know Is although I don't deserve you Not you at your best and your splendor With towering eucalyptus trees that sway in my dominion Not you at your worst Totally on fire, unlivable, unbreathable, I need you You see, I have no mother And you do A continental shelf A larger piece of land from where you came And I? I'm an orphan A little seashell that rests upon your native shores One of many, for sure But because of that, I surely must love you closely to the most of anyone For that reason, let me love you Don't mind my desperation Let me hold you, not just for vacation But for real and for forever Make it real life Let me be a real wife to you Girlfriend, lover, mother, friend I adore you Don't be put off by my quick-wordedness I'm generally quite quiet Quite a meditator, actually I'll do very well down by Paramhansa Yogananda's realization center, I'm sure I promise you'll barely even notice me Unless you want to notice me Unless you prefer a rambunctious child In which case, I can turn it on too I'm quite good on the stage as you may know You might have heard of me So either way, I'll fit in just fine So just love me by doing nothing And perhaps, by not shaking the county line I'm yours if you'll have me But regardless, you're mine

there’s a thing that i can’t quite pinpoint. sometimes it is a blue the matches the depths, other times it is translucent and evasive. it has been a deep burgundy that feels like the comfiest fall. one time it was the darkest grey- but mainly it is the green of life and knowing of adventure and fluttering. this is when the green makes sense. it feels like the cabin where i learned who i am that i know what i like and who i don’t that i am independent and needy i am scared and so brave that i need people that don’t need me and more people need me than i them but yet i’m still learning that- who i am. i thought i would be at a conclusion by now but then the thing changes every time i get close enough to touch and i’m stuck again, looking across the street at the house of the man who i always hear and rarely see wondering does he know the thing?

I don’t know what the fuck a haiku is. Our teacher says it’s just five syllables, followed by seven, followed by another five. Easy. But she doesn’t really care what we write, knows most of us don’t give a fuck about writing one. She’s just here to pad her resume post-graduation. The district can’t afford teachers who will stay here for long. She’ll move on in a couple years and teach kids in a better neighborhood about haikus. Maybe they’ll do better. They’ve probably been to the Alps on vacation. They’ll just write about that or some shit. None of us know what Japan is like. Nobody ever tells us why they cared about syllables in sets of 5-7-5 so much that they turned it into poetry. I’ve seen it on a map. Seen some movies. Never been there. Never hope to go. Don’t know anyone who’s been there, either, except maybe Sarah-from-downstairs’s grandparents. She said they came from there, but they’re dead now. Sarah’s never been herself. Her family has no money to visit relatives she’s never met in a country she’s never seen. Our teacher showed us some examples of haikus about tranquil ponds and mountains, then told us to write our own haikus about nature, but what do I know about nature? They’d probably tell me the herb garden in Mrs. Murphy’s cracked kitchen window, and that half-bald fox that digs through the dumpster side-by-side with the homeless man who used to live down the hall, and the dandelions in the sidewalk cracks don’t count as nature, and we don’t count as nature either. Aunt Chloe got arrested on prostitution charges a few years back. Some birds woo their mates with pebbles. It’s in the nature documentaries they show in school. But humans aren’t part of nature. Aunt Chloe’s just some whore. Nobody wants to hear that it’s how she kept herself fed. Nobody cares that that charge on her record will make it that much harder for her to get a regular job. How was she ever supposed to afford rehab? How would she afford it now? Mama would help Aunt Chloe with things, but she’s got it hard enough trying to pay off that root canal she had last February. Some good fluoride’s done us when we can’t even go to the dentist most years. Mr. Michaels upstairs says they’re using fluoride to control us. Mama says he must’ve stopped taking his meds. But sometimes I think he’s not all that crazy. Why should we trust the tap water? It’s not like the government gives a fuck about us or what’s in our water. My science textbook calls adaptation the cornerstone of life on earth— adaptation in nature is what’s kept everything going all these years. That dumpster fox isn’t even afraid of that homeless man anymore, even though some foxes out in the woods in Wyoming with the same old fox DNA as this one would be afraid of him, and the homeless man isn’t afraid of the fox either, even though Megan from the suburbs probably would be. But they tell us, humans aren’t nature, not us, not like this. But Sarah-from-downstairs says she’s got some photos of Japan that her grandparents left behind, and I can look through them with her if I want. She thinks she saw some mountains in there somewhere, once, and maybe we could write our haikus about those.

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be. On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island, The voice of a violin lasts in the air And leads into a starry night. And those who expected lightning and thunder Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and the moon are above, As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, As long as rosy infants are born No one believes it is happening now. Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: There will be no other end of the world, There will be no other end of the world. // Warsaw, 1944

Out of everything I've done, everything I've lost, everything I have gotten unexpectedly, I can give you a little in leaves, in sour iron. A terrified flavor, a river that the feathers of the burning eagles are covering, a sulphurous retreat of petals. The undivided salt doesn't forgive me now, nor the constant bread, nor the tiny church eaten by the ocean rain, nor the coal bitten by the secret foam. I have looked and found, heavily, under the earth, among the frightening bodies, like a tooth made of whitish wood, coming and going under the stubborn acid, close to the substances of agony, between moon and knives, dying at night. Now in the center of this speed no one takes seriously, alongside walls that have no threads, deep inside cut off at the ends, here I am with the things that loses starts, like a vegetable, alone.

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white, Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.

place where i gulp, a tiny back room somewhere distant and indistinct, or a small house off a backroad & cozy with little turkish rugs, crayon-colored furniture and things, dollhouse-size, but alive, flexing wide like a spongy sea creature or lung. forming want. [ ] i try plying it with different tastes—tea, chorizo, avocado, nuts— but nothing doing; no more than opening and shutting windows stalls the mount to heat frenzy and returning chill; the gape stays still, shadowed like Humphrey Bogart in a trenchcoat on some staircase (stirring for a cigarette)

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see. For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green. I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know. But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.

May we raise children who love the unloved things – the dandelion, the worms and spiderlings. Children who sense the rose needs the thorn & run into rainswept days the same way they turn towards sun… And when they’re grown & someone has to speak for those who have no voice may they draw upon that wilder bond, those days of tending tender things and be the ones.

We didn't know what woke us—just something moving, lighter than our breathing. The world bound by an icy ligature, our house was to the bat a hollow, warmer cavity that now it could not leave. I screamed for you to do something. So you killed it with the broom; I heard you curse as you swept the air. I wanted you to do it until you did. I have never forgiven you

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out But I'm too tough for him I say, stay in there I'm not going to let anybody see you There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out But I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke And the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks Never know that he's in there There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out But I'm too tough for him I say Stay down, do you want to mess me up? You want to screw up the works? You want to blow my book sales in Europe? There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out But I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes When everybody's asleep I say, I know that you're there So don't be sad Then I put him back But he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die And we sleep together like that with our Secret pact And it's nice enough to make a man Weep But I don't weep Do you?

there are so many tictoc clocks everywhere telling people what toctic time it is for tictic instance five toc minutes toc past six tic Spring is not regulated and does not get out of order nor do its hands a little jerking move over numbers slowly we do not wind it up it has no weights springs wheels inside of its slender self no indeed dear nothing of the kind. (So,when kiss Spring comes we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss lips because tic clocks toc don't make a toctic difference to kisskiss you and to kiss me)

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. // How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. // Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. // Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.

You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. Come with me, then, And we’ll leave it far and far away— (Only you and I, understand!) You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows, And, if you like, The perfect places of Sleep. Ah, come with me! I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, That floats forever and a day; I’ll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, Until I find the Only Flower, Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea.

When I die, I want your hands on my eyes: I want the light and wheat of your beloved hands to pass their freshness over me once more: I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny. I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep. I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you to sniff the sea’s aroma that we loved together, to continue to walk on the sand we walk on. I want what I love to continue to live, and you whom I love and sang above everything else to continue to flourish, full-flowered: so that you can reach everything my love directs you to, so that my shadow can travel along in your hair, so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

Swift things are beautiful: Swallows and deer, And lightening that falls Bright-veined and clear, Rivers and meteors, Wind in the wheat, The strong-withered horse, The runner's sure feet. And slow things are beautiful: The closing of day, The pause of the wave That curves downward to spray, The ember that crumbles, The opening flower, And the ox that moves on In the quiet of power.