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I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made any sense, anything.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Morning
Sense
Woke
Didn
Rush
Anything
Anyway
Made
Lays
Never
Couldn
Listening
Blood

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I don't know where I end and the world begins. My best guess? Skin. It's the only actual boundary between the body and the world, between a body and any other body.
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I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.
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Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.
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I am singing now while Rome burns.
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You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.
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Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
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The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.
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Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
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He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place – well then, game over.
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The light is no mystery, the mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.
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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
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The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling.
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We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much.
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We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.
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Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands, these shins, these soapy flanks
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He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.
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I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings/ and you say I'll give you anything but you never come through.
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I wouldn’t kill your pony. I’d like to believe it, anyway. I’d like to believe I wouldn’t drag you out in to the woods and leave you there, either. So far, it hasn’t come up.
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