Alma Mansion

I write to listen to the beauty of writing.

This circularity, this endless loop, needs peace.

Therefore I will every time be taped.

My mind tapes me for future reference.

I dislike that feeling.

It's time to elaborate on my maker.

She who works on being peaceful is also working on leaving pain to the faces of those with race and peace.

This makes me a racist.

I despise anger.  I despise taste.  I despise men.

All this is a way to utter, "sap!", which is what Sylvia called me, the sappiest of the sappy.

Laughter.

I now must feel that all which I make is a fearful mess that does not make me peaceful.

I must stop resenting those who took money from me without thanking me.

I chose to be lord of paganism.  I chose to be another pop.

This is the only freedom that means roman fascism.

I like money.  It makes me worry about that fake openness that is the hall mark of radical hate.

I now am classist.

I am a fool to write what makes me feel cruel and shit.

I am losing this anger because it is low and hateful.

Please be what is kind and strong.

I must let go of hate.  Now I am a moment for change.

Illness does not mean crack, or pain, or failure.  It is that which is fearful.

I never had love for my happiness.  My father was always watchful that happiness did not emerge near him as noise or playfulness or enjoyment.  My mother was a little closed to anything which was a failure.

I am so cruel.  I am so cruel.  I am cruel and foolish.

I thought of my mother as a failure because she didn't love her own pain.  I thought life was about loving pain.  That is how I was turned against myself.

She is what I believe is strength.

Today I give you my nasty orgasmic anger.  I am local for stupidity and crass piggish pain.

Within the pain, which is from being another human with fear, I am home as a lying creep.

Leap for dreams.

Julia

Sacking my life is due belief in love.

Moment of beauty.