Cielo y quietud

Mis ojos ven la crueldad

pero no la dejan pasar

son de agua

limpian la verdad

Not exactly forbidden

I am always hungry

& wanting to have

sex. This is a fact.

If you get right

down to it the new

unprocessed peanut

butter is no damn

good & you should

buy it in a jar as

always in the

largest supermarket

you know. And

I am an enemy

of change, as

you know. All

the things I

embrace as new

are in

fact old things,

re-released: swimming,

the sensation of

being dirty in

body and mind

summer as a

time to do

nothing and make

no money. Prayer

as a last re-

sort. Pleasure

as a means,

and then a

means again

with no ends

in sight. I am

absolutely in opposition

to all kinds of

goals. I have

no desire to know           

where this, anything

is getting me.

When the water

boils I get

a cup of tea.

Accidentally I

read all the

works of Proust.

It was summer

I was there

so was he. I

write because

I would like

to be used for

years after

my death. Not

only my body

will be compost

but the thoughts

I left during

my life. During

my life I was

a woman with

hazel eyes. Out

the window

is a crooked

silo. Parts

of you

I think

of as stripes

which I am

learning to

love along. We

swim naked

in ponds &

I write be-

hind your

back. My thoughts

about you are

not exactly

forbidden, but

exalted because

they are useless,

not intended

to get you

because

you love

me. It’s more

like a playground

where I play

with my reflection

of you until

you come back

and into the

real you I

get to sink

my teeth. With

you I don't know 
how to relax &

so I write

behind your

back. Which

is hard.

Nature

is out of control

you tell me &

that’s what’s so

ill about

it. I’m immoderately

in love with you,

knocked out by

your one

white hair

why should

something

I had never

known be the

very best there

is. I love

you from my

youth,

starting back

there when

one day stopped
being just like the

rest, sudden 
bond and
longing, constant

love, a light-

ning in the

middle of

the day,

a halted step

in the vastly

conventional

path of

the Sun. I

squint. I

wink. I

hesitate
before I
take the

ride.

Retailored version of Eileen Myles' “Peanut Butter”