Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.

Choose to spend your whole life telling secrets you owe no one to everyone, until there isn’t anyone who can insult you by calling you what you are: you holy blinking star.

I know the anger that lies inside of me like I know the beat of my heart and the taste of my spit. It is easier to be angry than to hurt. Anger is what I do best. It is easier to be furious than to be yearning.

I do not exist. There is nothing left.

The more I wanted, the sadder I felt.

it is only
once in a while
that you see
someone whose
electricity
and prescence
matches yours
at that
moment

Confusion in her eyes that says it all. She’s lost control.

These words I’m saying so much begin to lose meaning:
Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw:

Words and what they try to say swept
out the window, down the slant of the roof.

I must shoulder my aloneness somehow, and begin to be nobler.

I must have two sides,
two mouths, two minds,
two lives: one that worries about the future
while the other
sleepwalks through the fire.