Now you can too!
Click here to meet THE GREAT DESTROYER OF WORLDS. No, but really. He wants to talk to you!
SUBMIT TO THE DARK LORD.
With one easy payment of 1 million trillion your couch goes to college dollars.
Please send to the moon or my Jeep or my dog.
“Stay beautiful — but don’t stay down underground too long. Don’t turn into a mole or a worm or a root or a stone. Come on out into the sunlight. Breathe in trees. Knock out mountains. Commune with snakes and be the very hero of birds. Don’t forget to poke your head up and blink — think. Walk all around. Swim upstream. Don’t forget to fly.”
“The woman you were when you left them. The silhouette sorting through your garbage, in search of aluminum cans and credit cards. The man who jumped in front of your car and the man who thought he had pushed him. The jealous husband. Clarence Thomas’ first wife. The minister who built harpsichords and molested you, again and again. The mother who cannot taste her milk. Your grandmother’s image of herself. Sammy Davis, Jr. Your children. The children you knew would die as sacrifice. The man who wears headphones and operates the ride. The child running into the fire, for protection. The reprieved. The stoic who embraces his weakness. The woman you swear you have become.”
“I am a tornado child. I come like a swirl of black and darken up your day; I whip it all into my womb, lift you and your things, carry you to where you’ve never been, and maybe, if I feel good, I might bring you back, all warm and scared, heart humming wild like a bird after early sudden flight. I am a tornado child. I tremble at the elements. When thunder rolls my womb trembles, remembering the tweak of contractions that tightened to a wail when my mother pushed me out into the black of a tornado night. I am a tornado child, you can tell us from far, by the crazy of our hair; couldn’t tame it if we tried. Even now I tie a bandanna to silence the din of anarchy in these coir-thick plaits. I am a tornado child born in the whirl of clouds; the center crumbled, then I came. My lovers know the blast of my chaotic giving; they tremble at the whip of my supple thighs; you cross me at your peril, I swallow light when the warm of anger lashes me into a spin, the pine trees bend to me swept in my gyrations. I am a tornado child. When the spirit takes my head, I hurtle into the vacuum of white sheets billowing and paint a swirl of color, streaked with my many songs.”
it is all blood and breaking, blood and breaking, the thing drops out of its box squalling into the light. they are both squalling, animal and cage. her bars lie wet, open and empty and she has made herself again out of flesh out of dictionaries, she is always emptying and it is all the same wound the same blood the same breaking
“Some men have not learned that heartwounds as deep as a woman’s need for love do not respond to phoney curatives of roses, sweetened words and make-up passion in scented rooms. They do not heal themselves with the passing of time which erases time only but not pain and the memory of pain. Let untreated heartwounds become sores — scabs — scars — ugly reminders of flawed love. Some men believe woman were born to endure — to understand — to forgive — to be irrational in all things. It is that way, they tell us, with the pull of the moon. They will not learn, perhaps cannot learn, that a woman’s heart damaged by multiple wounds beats faintly and then not at all.”
You should take better care of your things
Your scratched CD’s, dirty wings
Your goddamn soul, sick in its bed
Traded for pride & a big fat head
I wanna fuck off, as suggested by you
Slither to Seattle for a summer or two
Paint with smoke & smoke alone
Call nowhere & absolutely no one my home
Not to escape, but to unglue
This city from the bottom of my shoe
If I don’t run now, I won’t get away from you.