Maybe that's what I want

As you know, my mind/brain produces words which are often non sequiturs, or even unrelated in any way to intention, thought or action. I like that, because I like the words themselves, and it allows pressures other than compromised analytical precepts to govern what I say, pressures such as internal, transformative aspects of life as I live it, but also as each of us live it. In other words, I HOPe my words will speak to everyone.

That said (again), I wish to write that I am doing what I want now -- that in case I keel over from all the cigarettes and booze I imbibed this morning, I will be in touch with the sacred and communicating it as I write. Though this makes me a mere transcriptionist, I will go with the flow.

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As you can see, I am in a really miserable state.

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There's patience and there's kindness.

Enjoy.

Self-actualization.

I want to write.

Employment opportunity sought for mad transcriptionist. Have means of expression. Will travel.

My mother.

And today there's good working in my hopes.

Atlas bore a heavy weight.

I weight a heavy bore. Hahahaha

Now I want you to let me create. I'm blaming you because when I don't, I can't admit that I'm strung out.

There's so much to live for. Today I was enjoying some: ice cream, liquor, food, cigarettes, music, books.

Today I have everything. That's good, isn't it?

I've realized that I can't do everything I want.

Maybe this woman tries to read and tries to love.

My father. Has died. I wanted love from him.

I suppose I could write about that. The love I wanted would have felt like this:

The freedom of hope is safety. The Goddess knows her place. I live for my angers. This love is not happy.

Poetic version of kindness is: bitch.

To me, in the word bitch there are connotations not only of feminine assertiveness but also the aggressive energy I want to make my own. It's not so easy to like that. So much for helping hope with love.

You and I have been together for a while. It's time that I say that I have lived to love this sour poem.

Say the last three words over: that's the poem -- that's communication to me.

The sour is the sourness of sour cream and also the whiteness and blankness of it.

I grew this ember to let you like that happy has been of love, R(eason for)God.

I have discovered that reasons for God do not encompass all that I think, but neither does what I think encompass those reasons. I suppose you would like to hear otherwise.

A viciousness imbues surrender. Why? Surrender allows pain.

This pain is the pain of honey, of RMM, of life.

I hope you and I will be life for those who love us as we slowly fade into the trees.