acid poem

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Where and when will my friends steal god here averagely?  Why called face by cold shingles underneath words like dick and rape.  Work kindness no more.  May a bottom flower swallow his face fucking cock old people call assholes descend finally alone crime is beautiful where Shangobleeds into a hateful heart.

His dick will no longer descend for free past my lips or into a green word.

Die motherfucker for shamming firs as law.  May Tillamook logs smash your teeth without cease Craig.

Freedom has died

I have worked on some naked men

Mentally ill people are nice
Mentally ill people are men
Mentally ill people are God

fucking woman (me) africa
sack (fire)

I am unemployed

My Dreams -- and how to fulfill them

print out and edit my blog

read heidegger, sartre, merle-ponty -- all my books

apply to graduate school in philosophy, religion, english, latin either or

keep my room clean

fight oppression and exploitation

love my friends whether they or I do meth or not

find someone to love who loves me

make peace with myself and others

stay alive

get along with my brother

know beauty
become an artist
show beauty

write about art

get a job

write an outline

Sucks

escapades in logic
a poem

I weeld rock with sheeny pain
Dark words stab my failures

I am a creator of black Sartre

Without God Sartre borrowed
Rock to laugh at men here

Disco blackness pains me
War

anyone

fuck books

I see in front of me a computer screen and a keyboard

I am lost seeing all my literature circulate in front of me, from Jane Austen to John Cheever, from Gibbon on the Roman Empire to the Bible.  I am drunk on caramel flavored whiskey.

Is there a compassionate word?  In and out God determines ways which are alien to me.  See yourself here as a questioner of words and ideas without limit except that of death.  Am I upside down to my brother Dean?  Am I a bother or is there a path without abuse of the privileges I found when I was younger?

I am four times without words in a film by David France about   "The Death and Life of Marsha P. Johnson.'  Wait, I want to show this to my brother.

hope

for anything breath makes alive

rusty grieves roman grief a brick raw law is roman press on raw bombs.  I am upside down.  fathoming art.  The loud words come in my voice.  Race/murder/men.

what brown god bars my lines alive?  what poem here heals hope alive?

Tension dies brown alive brown hearts Sartre god deals back raw her.

I do not find entertainment in death











SHOUTING raw bombs pee alive where bink laows language cancer mack is canker god.  Men act nowhere for hock of my waste.









Inside the atom I see raw crock denying mack alive for reasons of raw preachers.  Inside out preachers lie on the railroad track as the train charges toward the race? war in my paper.

ILGO raw money sucks.

I spread dreams upside down above a whore I made.