“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.”

“I loved youlike a man loves a woman he never touches, onlywrites to, keeps little photographs of. I would haveloved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling acigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, alllovers betray.”

“I see you drinking at a fountain with tinyblue hands, no, your hands are not tinythey are small, and the fountain is in Francewhere you wrote me that last letter andI answered and never heard from you again.you used to write insane poems aboutANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and youknew famous artists and most of themwere your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealousbecause we’ never met. we got close once inNew Orleans, one half block, but never met, nevertouched. so you went with the famous and wroteabout the famous, and, of course, what you found outis that the famous are worried abouttheir fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bedwith them, who gives them that, and then awakensin the morning to write upper case poems aboutANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ toldus, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybeit was the upper case. you were one of thebest female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved youlike a man loves a woman he never touches, onlywrites to, keeps little photographs of. I would haveloved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling acigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, alllovers betray. it didn’ help. you saidyou had a crying bench and it was by a bridge andthe bridge was over a river and you sat on the cryingbench every night and wept for the lovers who hadhurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but neverheard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met youI would probably have been unfair to you or youto me. it was best like this.”

“If I could only make her fall in love with me. Pretend to be a writer and just fuck her and have her cook for me. I would never have to write I’d just pretend.”

“There's nothing to stop a man from writing unless that manstops himself. If a man truly desires to write, then he will.Rejection and ridicule will only strengthen him. And the longerhe is held back the stronger he will become, like a mass of risingwater against a dam. There is no losing in writing, it will make your toes laughas you sleep, it will make you stride like a tiger, it will firethe eye and put you face to face with death. You will die a fighter, you will be honored in hell. The luck of the word. Go with it, send it.”

“Never bring a lot of money to where a poor man lives. He can only lose what little he has. On the other hand it is mathematically possible that he might win whatever you bring with you. What you must do, with money and the poor, is never let them get too close to one another.”

“I was only photographing in words the reality of it all.”