BOMB 9 Spring 1984
I am the woman who was born alone/I am the woman who fell alone/I am the woman who waits/I am the woman who seeks/I am the woman who looks inward/I am the woman who looks under the water/I am the sacred swimmer/Because I can swim in greatness.
To Die of Love
written Cock-e-noe but people say ka-KEE-nee
as in bikini or Eeniweetok
Someone must have traduced Annette Von Funicello, for she awoke one morning in the full effulgence of a migraine to discover two youthful, doltish, “virile looking,” and, unmistakably, police officers, murmuring at a scarcely respectful distance from her canopied bed.
I could hear the old man wheezing as he rubbed me down.
It doesn’t cost a thing
When the wind blows with all its force
Curiosity’s risks. Have a spark of it in your mind and instantly Manhattan turns into a puzzle, an enormous knot of light, noise, traffic and wind, chance and impossibility, hysteria and economics, of which you are hopelessly the middle point.
Writing must be a machine for breaking down, that is, allowing the now uncontrolled and uncontrollable reconstitutions of thoughts and expressions.
The key warmed in your hand
and you knew the password
& black like the last time
& if it wasn’t you
All you want to do is murder us, those who have survived
These poems are addressed to Fernando Gordillo Cervantes.
Because writing is also being with you
Today I’d like to write about what I need—
The Generals buy, interpret and dispense
I never told you
I want you.
Revolutionary culture to me resembles a flock of birds flying under the open sky;
higher than spire and gyre
it inhaled sky
with the third eye
“May you live in interesting times”—Chinese curse
The white moon acted as cynosure. Angstrom lay awake in his bed, situated directly beneath its transparency.
During the short time I had