My Tongue Is Pierced With Glass.

Today In My Heart A Vague Trembling Of Stars And All Roses Are As White As My Pain.

I'm Satisfied. I Am Progressively Making My Life And My Name In The Surest And Purest Manner. If I Catch On In The Theater, As I Think I Will, All The Doors Will Gladly Open Wide For Me.

Verde Que Te Quiero Verde. Verde Viento. Verde Ramas. Green I Love You Green. Green Wind. Green Branches.

Devoutly The Teachers Point Out Huge Fumigated Domes; But Beneath The Statues There's No Love, No Love Beneath The Eyes Set In Crystal. Love Is There, In Flesh Ripped By Thirst, In The Tiny Hut Struggling Against The Flood; Love Is There, In Ditches Where Snakes Of Hunger Wrestle, In The Sad Sea That Rocks Dead Gulls, And In The Darkest Stinging Kiss Under Pillows.

While The Poet Wrestles With The Horses On His Brain And The Sculptor Wounds His Eyes On The Hard Spark Of Alabaster, The Dancer Battles The Air Around Her, Air That Threatens At Any Moment To Destroy Her Harmony Or To Open Huge Open Empty Spaces Where Her Rhythm Will Be Annihilated.