I have waited over a hundred nights. Sketching my heartache inside the blur of their blacks. I can not say your name again. So much time has passed. The door has broken in the entryway. It can not open again. My soul is stuck inside those eroding hours. And here it will stay – with all of the monsters that you gave me. I pray their teeth will be as sharp as knives.
This may seem merely like a child’s imagination that gives life to dolls. But it was more than that. I intensely conceived those characters with no need of dolls. Distinctly visible in my ongoing dream, they were utterly human realities for me, which any doll—because unreal—would have spoiled. They were people.
And instead of ending with my childhood, this tendency expanded in my adolescence, taking firmer root with each passing year, until it became my natural way of being. Today I have no personality: I’ve divided all my humanness among the various authors whom I’ve served as literary executor. Today I’m the meeting-place of a small humanity that belongs only to me.
This is simply the result of a dramatic temperament taken to the extreme. My dramas, instead of being divided into acts full of action, are divided into souls. That’s what this apparently baffling phenomenon comes down to.
I don’t reject—in fact I’m all for—psychiatric explanations, but it should be understood that all higher mental activity, because it’s abnormal, is equally subject to psychiatric interpretation. I don’t mind admitting that I’m crazy, but I want it to be understood that my craziness is no different from Shakespeare’s, whatever may be the comparative value of the products that issue from the saner side of our crazed minds.
I subsist as a kind of medium of myself, but I’m less real than the others, less substantial, less personal, and easily influenced by them all.
When the sun goes down
fling off their red dresses
and put on their black dresses
the wind is coming
over the sandy streets
of the town called moonlight
with his long arms
with his silver mouth
humorous at first
touching their faces their dark petals
until they begin rising and falling:
the honeyed seizures.
All day they have been busy being roses
gazing responsible over the sand
into the sky into the blue ocean
so now why not
a little comfort
a little rippling pleasure.
You there, puddled in lamplight at your midnight desk—
you there, rewriting nature
so anyone can understand it—
what will you say about the roses—
their sighing, their tossing—
and the want of the heart,
and the trill of the heart,
and the burning mouth
of the wind?