One of these days, if I can get up the nerve, I think I’ll cut
off a piece of my own head and eat it.

 I love the egg.
  I even love my poor, thick, mysterious skull.

  Mario for mayor of me, and my glorious city.
  The Mayor of New York should be a nightingale.

  Jane Lee told me that in Maine she met a little boy who
insisted that in his family they had green blood in their veins.

  Everything I love is young. I love you, because you are
young. Satire, Epistle, the glistening inner wing of a redwing
blackbird’s wing, you too are young.
   I am dying young. Horace, young lover of old words,
young new faces, I love you best.

It’s like something breathing
its last. God, it’s a lonely sound.
Pacific fog is blowing in.

Beautiful little bitch
with your fine bones,
thin and sweet ears,

When I am 12,000 miles from her
she will take her head
and throw it off a cliff. 

the only difference
now is that I’m an incurable romantic with an
incurable wound.

The one-armed man
made six cottage windows for each door,
although he did not want to see his cars