God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.

Rats live on no evil star

Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.