We’d Torn Open Our Chests And Shown

When We Were Arguing On My Twenty-fourth Birthday, She Left The Kitchen, Came Back With A Pistol, And Fired It At Me Five Times From Right Across The Table. But She Missed. It Wasn't My Life She Was After. It Was More. She Wanted To Eat My Heart And Be Lost In The Desert With What She'd Done, She Wanted To Fall On Her Knees And Give Birth From It, She Wanted To Hurt Me As Only A Child Can Be Hurt By Its Mother.

There Were Many Moments In The Vine Like That One--where You Might Think Today Was Yesterday, And Yesterday Was Tomorrow, And So On. Because We All Believed We Were Tragic, And We Drank. We Had That Helpless, Destined Feeling. We Would Die With Handcuffs On. We Would Be Put A Stop To, And It Wouldn't Be Our Fault. So We Imagined. And Yet We Were Always Being Found Innocent For Ridiculous Reasons.

English Words Are Like Prisms. Empty, Nothing Inside, And Still They Make Rainbows.

Sometimes I Heard Voices Muttering In My Head, And A Lot Of The Time The World Seemed To Smolder Around Its Edges. But I Was In A Little Better Physical Shape Every Day, I Was Getting My Looks Back, And My Spirits Were Rising, And This Was All In All A Happy Time For Me. All These Weirdos, And Me Getting A Little Better Right In The Midst Of Them. I Had Never Known, Never Even Imagined For A Heartbeat, That There Might Be A Place For People Like Us.

This Wasn't The Sea Of The Inexorable Horizon And Smashing Waves, Not The Sea Of Distance And Violence, But The Sea Of The Etenally Leveling Patience And Wetness Of Water. Whether It Comes To You In A Storm Or In A Cup, It Owns You--we Are More Water Than Dust. It Is Our Origin And Our Destination.