Quote

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.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Wells
Build
Well
Capacity
Maneuver
Heart
City
Niche
Would
Cities
Chest
Thinking
Game
Chests
Games
Perfectly
Place
Thinks
Certain
Fit

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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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He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.
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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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Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.
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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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Fairy tales have rules. You are a princess or you aren’t. You are pure at heart or you aren’t. If you are pure at heart, or lucky, you might catch a break.
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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 swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.
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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.
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Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.
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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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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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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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I am singing now while Rome burns.
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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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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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Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued.
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I’m not suggesting the world is good, that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?
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Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
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