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I ask not wit, nor beauty do I crave, Nor wealth, nor pompous titles wish to have; But since, 'tis doomed through all degrees of life, Whether a daughter, sister, or a wife; That females should the stronger males obey, And yield implicit to their lordly sway; Since this, I say, is ev'ry woman's fate, Give me a mind to suit my slavish state.

Oh! had I now an overcoat, For I am nearly freezing; My head and lungs are stopped with cold, And often I am sneezing. And, too, while passing through the street, Where merchants all are greeting, They say, young man this is the coat That you should wear to meeting. Then, looking down upon my feet, For there my boots are bursting, With upturned heels and grinning toes, With tacks which long were rusting. Ah! how they view my doeskin pants With long and crooked stitches, They say, young man would you not like To have some other breeches? My head is also hatless too, The wind is swiftly blowing, They say, young man will you not freeze? See ye not how it’s snowing? And now they take me by the hand, And lead me toward the store, And some are pulling down the coats Before I reach the door. So walk I in, their goods to price, To quench a thirst that’s burning, And freely would I buy a coat, But nothing I am earning. They say to me, I should have known, That winter time was coming, When I was roaming through the park, With birds around me humming. Their logic’s true, I must confess, And all they say is pleasant; But did I know that I would have No overcoat at present? To satisfy these craving Jews, To buy I am not able, For it is more than I can do To meet my wants at table. Therefore my skin will toughly grow, Will grant to me this favor, That I may learn to stand as much As little Jack, the sailor. And if I live till winter’s passed, Though nature’s harps unstringing, I then will fly to yon woodland To hear the oak trees singing. Then I will not on hero’s fame, Ride swiftly on to victory, Although my saddle may be made Of cotton sacks or hickory. But if I die, farewell to all, Oh! who will tell the story, That I have lived a noble life. And now gone home to glory? Yes, who will chant a song of praise For me—who will be weeping— When I have yielded to the grave, And ’mid the dead am sleeping? But some will ask, “how did he die? It was without my knowing; Was it because he caught a cold, Last year when it was snowing?” The answer now comes hurling back, In words I cannot utter, It was not by a cold alone, But partly bread and butter.

Would but indulgent Fortune send To me a kind, and faithful Friend, One who to Virtue’s Laws is true, And does her nicest Rules pursue; One Pious, Lib’ral, Just and Brave, And to his Passions not a Slave; Who full of Honour, void of Pride, Will freely praise, and freely chide; But not indulge the smallest Fault, Nor entertain one slighting Thought: Who still the same will ever prove, Will still instruct and still will love: In whom I safely may confide, And with him all my Cares divide: Who has a large capacious Mind, Join’d with a Knowledge unconfin’d: A Reason bright, a Judgement true, A Wit both quick, and solid too: Who can of all things talk with Ease, And whose Converse will ever please: Who charm’d with Wit, and inward Graces, Despises Fools with tempting Faces; And still a beauteous Mind does prize Above the most enchanting Eyes: I would not envy Queens their State, Nor once desire a happier Fate.

i wish them cramps. i wish them a strange town and the last tampon. i wish them no 7-11. i wish them one week early and wearing a white skirt. i wish them one week late. later i wish them hot flashes and clots like you wouldn't believe. let the flashes come when they meet someone special. let the clots come when they want to. let them think they have accepted arrogance in the universe, then bring them to gynecologists not unlike themselves.

Who e’er she be That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me; Wher e’er she lie, Lock’d up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny; Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth And teach her fair steps to our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine; Meet you her, my wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call’d my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-ty. Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that’s best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest. A face made up Out of no other shop Than what nature’s white hand sets ope. A cheek where youth, And blood, with pen of truth Write, what the reader sweetly ru’th. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes. Lips, where all day A lover’s kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness. Eyes, that displaces The neighbour diamond, and outfaces That sunshine, by their own sweet graces. Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems, that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tam’d heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love’s bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and flight As the coy bride’s when night First does the longing lover right. Tears, quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a forespent night of sorrow. Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers’ play, Yet long by th’ absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes say, “Welcome friend.” Sidneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers, ’Bove all, nothing within that lours. Whate’er delight Can make Day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night. In her whole frame Have nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish, her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes, and I wish—no more. Now if time knows That her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows, Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is she. ’Tis she, and here, Lo, I unclothe and clear My wishes’ cloudy character. May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions; but her story.

I He dines alone surrounded by reflections of himself. Then after sleep and benzedrine descends the Cinquecento stair his magic wrought from hypochondria of the well- to-do and nagging deathwish of the poor; swirls on smiling genuflections of his liveried chauffeur into a crested lilac limousine, the cynosure of mousey neighbors tittering behind Venetian blinds and half afraid of him and half admiring his outrageous flair. II Meanwhile his mother, priestess in gold lamé, precedes him to the quondam theater now Israel Temple of the Highest Alpha, where the bored, the sick, the alien, the tired await euphoria. With deadly vigor she prepares the way for mystery and lucre. Shouts in blues-contralto, ”He’s God’s dictaphone of all-redeeming truth. Oh he’s the holyweight champeen who’s come to give the knockout lick to your bad luck; say he’s the holyweight champeen who’s here to deal a knockout punch to your hard luck.“ III Reposing on cushions of black leopard skin, he telephones instructions for a long slow drive across the park that burgeons now with spring and sailors. Peers questingly into the green fountainous twilight, sighs and turns the gold-plate dial to Music For Your Dining-Dancing Pleasure. Smoking Egyptian cigarettes rehearses in his mind a new device that he must use tonight. IV Approaching Israel Temple, mask in place, he hears ragtime allegros of a ”Song of Zion“ that becomes when he appears a hallelujah wave for him to walk. His mother and a rainbow-surpliced cordon conduct him choiring to the altar-stage, and there he kneels and seems to pray before a lighted Jesus painted sealskin-brown. Then with a glittering flourish he arises, turns, gracefully extends his draperied arms: “Israelites, true Jews, O found lost tribe of Israel, receive my blessing now. Selah, selah.” He feels them yearn toward him as toward a lover, exults before the image of himself their trust gives back. Stands as though in meditation, letting their eyes caress his garments jewelled and chatoyant, cut to fall, to flow from his tall figure dramatically just so. Then all at once he sways, quivers, gesticulates as if to ward off blows or kisses, and when he speaks again he utters wildering vocables, hypnotic no-words planned (and never failing) to enmesh his flock in theopathic tension. Cries of eudaemonic pain attest his artistry. Behind the mask he smiles. And now in subtly altering light he chants and sinuously trembles, chants and trembles while convulsive energies of eager faith surcharge the theater with power of their own, a power he has counted on and for a space allows to carry him. Dishevelled antiphons proclaim the moment his followers all day have hungered for, but which is his alone. He signals: tambourines begin, frenetic drumbeat and glissando. He dances from the altar, robes hissing, flaring, shimmering; down aisles where mantled guardsmen intercept wild hands that arduously strain to clutch his vestments, he dances, dances, ensorcelled and aloof, the fervid juba of God as lover, healer, conjurer. And of himself as God.

You are food. You are here for me to eat. Fatten up, and I will like you better. Your brother will be first, you must wait your turn. Feed him yourself, you will learn to do it. You will take him eggs with yellow sauce, muffins torn apart and leaking butter, fried meats late in the morning, and always sweets in a sticky parade from the kitchen. His vigilance, an ice pick of   hunger pricking his insides, will melt in the unctuous cream fillings. He will forget. He will thank you for it. His little finger stuck every day through cracks in the bars will grow sleek and round, his hollow face swell like the moon. He will stop dreaming about fear in the woods without food. He will lean toward the maw of   the oven as it opens every afternoon, sighing better and better smells.

A witch can charm milk from an ax handle. A witch bewitches a man's shoe. A witch sleeps naked. "Witch ointment" on the back will allow you to fly through the air. A witch carries the four of clubs in her sleeve. A witch may be sickened at the scent of roasting meat. A witch will neither sink nor swim. When crushed, a witch's bones will make a fine glue. A witch will pretend not to be looking at ber own image in a window. A witch will gaze wistfully at the glitter of a clear night. A witch may take the form of a cat in order to sneak into a good man's chamber. A witch's breasts will be pointed rather than round, as discovered in the trials of the 1950s. A powerful witch may cause a storm at sea. With a glance, she will make rancid the fresh butter of her righteous neighbor. Even our fastest dogs cannot catch a witch-hare. A witch has been known to cry out while her husband places inside her the image of a child. A witch may be burned for tying knots in a marriage bed. A witch may produce no child for years at a time. A witch may speak a foreign language to no one in particular. She may appear to frown when she believes she is smiling. If her husband dies unexpectedly, she may refuse to marry his brother. A witch has been known to weep at the sight of her own child. She may appear to be acting in a silent film whose placards are missing In Hollywood the sky is made of tin. A witch makes her world of air, then fire, then the planets. Of cardboard, then ink, then a compass. A witch desires to walk rather than be carried or pushed in a cart. When walking a witch will turn suddenly and pretend to look at something very small. The happiness of an entire house maybe ruined by witch hair touching a metal cross. The devil does not speak to a witch. He only moves his tongue. An executioner may find the body of a witch insensitive to an iron spike. An unrepentant witch may be converted with a frttle lead in the eye. Enchanting witchpowder may be hidden in a girl's hair. When a witch is hungry, she can make a soup by stirring water with her hand. I have heard of a poor woman changing herself into a pigeon. At times a witch will seem to struggle against an unknown force stronger than herself. She will know things she has not seen with her eyes. She will have opinions about distant cities. A witch may cry out sharply at the sight of a known criminal dying of thirst. She finds it difficult to overcome the sadness of the last war. A nightmare is witchwork. The witch elm is sometimes referred to as "all heart." As in, "she was thrown into a common chest of witch elm." When a witch desires something that is not hers, she will slip it into her glove. An overwhelming power compels her to take something from a rich man's shelf. I have personally known a nervous young woman who often walked in her sleep. Isn't there something witchlike about a sleepwalker who wanders through the house with matches? The skin of a real witch makes a delicate binding for a book of common prayer. When all the witches in your town have been set on fire, their smoke will fill your mouth. It will teach you new words. It will tell you what you've done.

I’ll conjure the perfect Easter & we’ll plant mini spruces in the yard— my pink gloves & your green gloves like parrots from an opera over the earth— We’ll chatter about our enemies’ spectacular deaths. I’ll conjure the perfect Easter dark pesto sauce sealed with lemon long cords of fusilli to remind you of my hair & my pink gloves. Your gloves are green & transparent like the skin of Christ when He returned, filmed over with moss roses— I’ll conjure as perfect an Easter: provolone cut from the whole ball woody herbs burning our tongues—it’s a holiday I conjure with my pink-and-green gloves wrangling life from the dirt. It all turns out as I’d hoped. The warlocks of winter are dead & it’s Easter. I dig up body after body after body with my pink gloves, my green gloves.

Words shouting, singing, smiling, frowning— Sense lacking. Ah, nothing, more obscure than Browning, Save blacking.