I Want To Kiss God On His

Rejoice With The Day Lily For It Is Born For A Day To Live By The Mailbox And Glorify The Roadside

Home Is My Bethlehem, My Succoring Shelter, My Mental Hospital, My Wife, My Dam, My Husband, My Sir, My Womb, My Skull.

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

I Keep Feeling That There Isn't One Poem Being Written By Any One Of Us - Or A Book Or Anything Like That. The Whole Life Of Us Writers, The Whole Product I Guess I Mean, Is The One Long Poem - A Community Effort If You Will. It's All The Same Poem. It Doesn't Belong To Any One Writer - It's God's Poem Perhaps. Or God's People's Poem.

Some Women Marry Houses. It's Another Kind Of Skin; It Has A Heart, A Mouth, A Liver And Bowel Movements.