Okay working my own dirt is a possible answer

Farming with a reason
Made love my own.

I answered the raven
With her own barn:

When I called the party
A nasty face --

Empire of marx
With drugs and anger --

Oral Arc dazed me
Where My drive became open.

Ill Went out, then
Poem asked whip.



***********************



Muttering bonding reasoning life
Hanging cantering gabbling knife



****************************


Nodding the Soft Rift for Friends

Woman calls herself my latch;
What I did was to work this pig.

Rough with thanks, there is
Never my moss.

I cast this breath with mars;
I bathed in life for wars.



****************************


Onegin and the silence of popishness

I write where the drug pays itself to be open.
I live where the sack raids its murky leg.

The deleted font of raymond wears off.

Agates, Chrysolite, Quartz,
Pulled my thoughts to Enki.



*******************************


Alan Run with his Dean

To you I live organ-ly
As rain dreams of marking
Main naps

*************************************8


Mortar and Pestle

Women reason for the narcotic laughter
Of my own entrance.

A grandiose delusion of individual love.
Raining where mallow is rosy.

I destine the anger for a part of
That dance with ax.




****************************************

Dancing at Edelweiss

Pride and pain read your breezy
Efforts to make anyone die of their lies.

No murrays, no losses.

Maybe I'll just sit here and write, write anything.

Me necessary with dirt
Me another nark
Me pain

Of what I did.

Scapula

I angered

I deal

I bothered a ride with my needs.
I sacrificed attributes which were loving in order to like money.

Ask this when I give.

There is an annoying mystical undertone to my writing choices.  Perhaps you cannot detect that other than in the repetitiousness, the incoherence and the incompleteness of what I write.

I think I have to follow an impulse which no one cares about.



Where to start.
I have a fear of dying due to my shortness of breath, which may be getting better thanks to inhalers, but will they continue to help????

Baber:  A woman I knew at Oxford who was studying law (pre-law) and now I know what this block is.  I am not making sense because I would have to be a layman.

But that means I'm not a priestess.  OK.

I sit here, feeling the naked nastiness of my own flowers.

Sick:  I have reasons to listen.  First is that I hate answers because they involve my having pain because the answers I got always had to do with my inadequacy.

I don't think my father wanted me.

As of now, that's all.

A boring moment we can share

The gay Son

Sergeant Rich made with sauce --
Marking the list with cars.

I tensely ride peace needing
Lush answers.

Lamb gives a drink

Cream is drunk

Lentils will peace.




Treat me with a casket.

It reads the maturation of
My Pack of Zen.

I enter with a crazy
Drawl, without no man has his own fancy.


I fester with a feeling where
Land men gave themselves a ride to their nook.



AZ

I die where niches drag themselves into a charm.
I pass the lever material on to a paper.




[The myth of poetic anchors

Naked referees dodge the costly moment,
As deaf actresses deal with my grain.

I sip the need for answers and find
An apostle breathing the vacuum.

Lands pause so there will be
Men and myths to believe.]


Usury

Elephant moments ride to Napoli:
A famous road slopes to a crab.  [See Sartre]

I raid famine with my beasts.
I feel the left ventricular emanation.

Dry, I know poets write of home.




The \empire works.

Immanent thank you for
Bonding past reason.

I was wrong -- I can't do everything.

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Random.

I seize the "moment":

Rascals
were
my
m
answer
to my
longing
as a woman
for hurt.

I am not nothing!

You don't see me sobbing; you don't see the expression of anger and fear on my face.

There is no famous  pink l ush that is my coke.


Laughter.  Feel like nothing because I don't solicit and can't. 
This is what I want:  my own [glaark/cruelty /jank/junk/cold]
I lost my anger with the  romans.

I told you that there is love in the world.  I am a book nothing of much (I hate my own nothingness.  I am a   l   

Rise for you.

Rise for your dr eams
Stuck out my necessary efforts.  I hate romans.

I like feminine industrial crack.

Mexico is where dreams are  growing.

Julia Murray was alive for this need to be happy as a  insulting navel.

I read this as my own need to be shit.  I made daddy a Goddess so he would make me a lone.

Nota Bene

(One) I know(s) not the interior landscape's manner of producing my personality's presence for others.  All I know is that it is dangerous and futile and destructive to separate interior from exterior.

Illness proceeds from disturbances that support or cause interior weakness, that block an awareness of what to do in the face of exterior events, which may be as mundane as the necessity of getting up in the morning, or, what is not so different, the relationship with the whole of the universe.

Estrogen certainly stabilized and heightened some of the routes to effective linking of self and its actions in the world, though it obviously somewhat depressed my mood -- apart from its aid to a feminine appearance.

Somehow when I let go of being angry, I am able to be stronger.  I don't know why so much fear seems to begin with pain.  The pain is the pain of reaching a stabler existence at the expense of interior life.  I love feeling as if I am a planet of my own, full of weird landscapes, ecologies that grow and affect each other in unexpected and delightful ways, illuminating thoughts like lightning on a volcano, or a sunrise in the west.  Of course I am not that interesting but the tendrils and varying scopes of being alive to myself are what bring together dreams of an ideal, loving pleasurable existence and the means of reaching for that existence in the world:  the means of survival of both who I am to myself and who I might be in the realm that everybody for some reason recognizes as real.

At least there is the beauty of giving love even when answers to the most urgent and powerful of questions are unavailable or unforthcoming.

Out Loud:  I know when you are making things peaceful by the fact that you believe what you do is open to inspection, is full of kindness and good intent and is productive of social life -- bringing people together having elicited for each of us what is best about us and each other.

And now I hope that your beliefs in change will bear fruit.

I think that the part of me that rejected that part of your activity was intolerance of a light touch, of hopefulness, of anything not tough and cynical.

Since there's nothing that was nourishing in that, I must no longer stay separate to the extent possible in these later times.