poem

God,is there no faith left?He has not told. I would not know Him if I saw Him.

DICK__ DESIREDick's eyes-Soft, cold, and blue-Meet Devonshire's-Dark, sexy, and yearning.Turning away-Dick grabs two packets of sugar-While Devonshire's eyes-Are still upon him-Pondering his every move.Is Dick a playboy,A ladies' man,A mans' man,Or a killer?Does his sex long for,Something hard-Or something soft?Does he need cream in his coffee-The screaming splash of a man,Or the sweet flow of a woman?Finishing up at the bar-Dick turns to leave-Meets Devonshire's gaze again-Hot, thirsty, and longing-But full of trepidation.Following the flow of etiquette-Dick shoots out of the cafe,Past Devonshire,And into a world of dashed hopes,And regrets.But Devonshire-No longer of two worlds-Rises in pursuit-Goes after Dick,And taps him on the shoulder.Dick gives a turn,Raises his shoulders,And smiles with interest-Taking Devonshire's hand,And asking his name.Devonshire answers-Desire.Dick invites Devonshire to dinner,Where he eats everything,Swallowing Dick's life stories,And devouring his misgivings.For dessert,Devonshire takes Dick home,Into his bed,Against his flesh,And gives Dick all of him-His deepest desires,The love in his eyes,And the fire in his soul.

All that I desire in life are three...A wilderness: A beach on the sun-drenched sea,A puff of opium,And thee.

Saturated Arrogance...imprisoned musescried to be freeshe took away their quillsand saiddo not bother me...

Without the wetness of your love,The fragrance of your water,Or the trickling sounds ofYour voice,I shall always feelthirsty.

Okay, we didn__ work, and allmemories to tell you the truth aren__ good.But sometimes there were good times.Love was good. I loved your crooked sleepbeside me and never dreamed afraid.There should be stars for great warslike ours.

Maybe you think life is not worth living, but is death worth dying for?

All of my insecuritiesshine in the dark.

Come sleep with me: We won't make Love, Love will make us.

...but beautiful mosaics are made of broken pieces.

To suffer together is to suffer with beauty...

Broken MelodyBroken melody _ tear sparkling in the eyeOf a woman loved_Please past,Jewel lost,A trampled dreamLips unkissedIn the broken melody.With silent sobs the naked shoulders shake,Their whiteness dazzling_Stabbed, stabbed with remorseFor the moments of mindlessness,For her ruined fate,For the happiness lostIn the broken melody.Face hidden in her hands in shame,Remorsefully the woman weeps,With heart despairing(A broken guitar,A voice stifledOn lips kissed by painIn the broken melody).Silent he stands beside the woman weepingScolding tears of shameThat dim her eyes.Some money on the table quickly laysAnd goes away,Leaving the woman lostIn the broken melody.But when another comes, lust mounts again,The heated bloodPounds furiously through the veins,Benumbing mind_ and only gaspsAnd grants are heardIn the horrid melody.(Translated by R.Elsie)

I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple -- or a green field -- a place to enter, and in which to feel. Only in a secondary way is it an intellectual thing -- an artifact, a moment of seemly and robust wordiness --wonderful as that part of it is. I learned that the poem was made not just to exist, but to speak --to be company. It was everything that was needed, when everything was needed.

if you eat menand still feel like you__e starving, you__e craving something that they cannot give.

We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.

Inside my head / or in a distant / Galaxy / Soft I hear it / Calling me." from the song "In the Blackness" in the poetry collection "Terra Affirmative".

How many people came and stayed a certain time,Uttered light or dark speech that became part of youLike light behind windblown fog and sandFiltered and influenced by it, until no partRemains that is surely you.

And I Said To My Soul, Be LoudMadden me back to an afternoonI carry in menot like a woundbut like a will against a woundGive me again enough manto be the childchoosing my own annihilationsTo make of this severed limba wand to conjurea weapon to shatterdark matter of the dirt daubers' nestsgalaxies of glassWhacking glintsbash-dancing on the cellar's fireI am the sound the sun would makeif the sun could make a soundand the gasp of rotstabbed from the compost's lumpen living deathis meO my life my war in a jarI shake you and shake youand may the best ant winFor I am come a whirlwind of wasted thingsand I will ride this tantrum back to Goduntil my fixed self, my fluorescent selfmy grief__ibbling, unbewildered, wall__o__all selfwithers in me like a salted slug