Here We Go Mother On The Shipless

Beauty Spins And The Mind Moves. To Catch Beauty Would Be To Understand How That Impertinent Stability In Vertigo Is Possible. But No, Delight Need Not Reach So Far. To Be Running Breathlessly, But Not Yet Arrived, Is Itself Delightful, A Suspended Moment Of Living Hope.

The Words We Read And Words We Write Never Say Exactly What We Mean. The People We Love Are Never Just As We Desire Them. The Two Symbola Never Perfectly Match. Eros Is In Between.

That Night We Made Love "the Real Way" Which We Had Not Yet Attempted Although Married Six Months. Big Mystery. No One Knew Where To Put Their Leg And To This Day I'm Not Sure We Got It Right. He Seemed Happy. You're Like Venice He Said Beautifully. Early Next Day I Wrote A Short Talk ("on Defloration") Which He Stole And Had Published In A Small Quarterly Magazine. Overall This Was A Characteristic Interaction Between Us. Or Should I Say Ideal. Neither Of Us Had Ever Seen Venice.

He Stood Against The Wind And Let It Peel Him Clean

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.