(no subject)

[notyourbroom]

The sky cracked open
The world I knew;
Lay like the cats do
Sniffing the dew.

Cummings had an interesting idea-- maybe even a good idea. But who says that your lady can't be language? When romance IS in syntax, THEN what do you do?

Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.

Went weeping, little bones. But where?
Wasps come when I ask for pigeons.
The sister sands, they slipper soft away.
What else can befall?

Even the hour of our death may send
Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,
And life may summon us to newer races.

This salt can't warm a stone.
These lazy ashes.

The deep stream remembers:
Once I was a pond.
What slides away
Provides.

Went to visit the wind. Where the birds die.

Such music in a skin!
A bird sings in the bush of your bones.

I'll be a bite. You be a wink.
Sing the snake to sleep.

// various quotes interspersed of theodore roethke, ljuser:ivoryminstrel, hermann hesse, and bohumil hrabal