Systematic chance operations

Yes, this is a plagiarism, taken from Poems for the Millennium.
I have the freedom to randomly but systematically choose words
And throw them against the screen, repetitiously revealing
my own absence within language.

I find this so exciting that I would physically stimulate myself
to orgasm; however, I am neither so crude nor so crass as to
find the randomness of language a match or a basis for sexuality.
This perhaps makes me a traitor in the world of progressive poetry

Of forty years ago.

Money
Another one
Feelings
Creativity
Splayed
Good
Hopeful
Nothing

Is there anything more beautiful than the emergence of word from
physically situated "mind," that is the individual, also known
as THIS individual, who would rather stroll down the avenue
receiving desirous glances than subtly extract herself from language.

Me?
You?

We?
Them?

Laminate the questions; train me to save flies.
Detect cruelty; feel life to be maniacal.

Entrusting that movement is dark
(Someone hold me)

A crater on the Moon teaches more to me than hope
Drugs are cold.

Is there a good person who loves to say, yes to
her life?

Deplore me.

Derange the martyred path; a her.

Personality becomes Goddess

Good for the Darkness: peach is war.

And you are life.

A movement toward good is changing to life as
me.

Systematic chance operations
Jail is many for everyone.

Take mercenary cold feces.
Make life.

That's the assignment for today.

Peace cars.

(I and perhaps you may find ironic the slavery of being needed)
I want to make feelings home

Sound poem is a Goddess: that's what I paid love to guard.

I can change.