Ostriches and Trees
A hill surround my delight
With baby sore.
A no one pasting reading onto
Satirical threads.
Messy and grueling, I delight
In a drug for its place in life.
Oral trolley is cautious and
Life is rationality for men, a capable actor.
I sense nutting the tree is worse
than cashiering the paper.
Estrogen naked in the thoughts of a
Man stirring a famous paper.
I resemble dreams that dream of
Poems.
No one can be as nothingness with its
Paper.
And when life parts from my strength
I will give a patient pavement.
Sack the night: She alive for possibility.
***
Western Anger
Acting as a rational thread, I live to
Cast patience into the lake.
It is nothing to wield a free past.
Elevation is a way to breathe with
Gliding paper on a family's road
To laughter.
Okay naked drugs drink and fear
Do not allow my freedom to
Say I am policing breezy stars.
Oh well to work is to stop allah
Driving plumes to act in the string.
Affirmation and rights are narcs
When death is peace.
Peace and death go away at the
Flower goddess saying right is
Right.
Money and power coldly are sirs of
Rent.
Illness is a road to cruelty.
Hanging from a noose a friend works
In faces of fat rude bulls.
Ogle the family not my people: their
Sameness is no one's stink.
The facts are land, teachers and body.
Immure thy world in a famous clown.
Work to grieve lace.
***
Week's End.
That peace directly flowers creases.
I say things which are dreaming of sharks.
Oh the stars are flaming with a night
That gives delight.
Oh mosh a dream. Oh mash a life.
Oh marsh a flower.
Work, Sylvia, your patience is soft.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Decades
1950s
A world of money. Patience, drugs.
1960s
Dreams, peace, art, God. Another freedom to be alive. And where is paper?
1970s
I got the understanding and I was really good. And what is Poetic Pain?
1980s
Effort and baloney give you creepiness and shit. That is a loud pope, orgasmic thoughtless starring a life of boss working stars.
1990s
As what there is anger. I really was marked as a mosquer....
2000s
Poems are money. Art is a loser. Crash and Strange.
2010s
Saffire world is my family. I give me hope. World of rights and drugs. Sinful is rude.
Drugs.
Mother.
A world of money. Patience, drugs.
1960s
Dreams, peace, art, God. Another freedom to be alive. And where is paper?
1970s
I got the understanding and I was really good. And what is Poetic Pain?
1980s
Effort and baloney give you creepiness and shit. That is a loud pope, orgasmic thoughtless starring a life of boss working stars.
1990s
As what there is anger. I really was marked as a mosquer....
2000s
Poems are money. Art is a loser. Crash and Strange.
2010s
Saffire world is my family. I give me hope. World of rights and drugs. Sinful is rude.
Drugs.
Mother.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Living to Return
These words are afraid of myself:
I might give myself too much peace.
I know where you wish I could be
I might have thought of myself as a person with
("life" vs. "a cost") so, life.
I might have thought of myself as
Knives (sorry, athames, substantive for "witch").
Yet the actress worked lists, being myself
With Capes. I have now remembered the
Moment I wrote my own loop.
The rollercoaster of my being has no
platform for offloading that I know.
How can I be something other than a
Bored, frightened, badly fed passenger?
***
Love and parts of my freedom are strong.
I am good when I feel happy.
I have money and more of it.
It needs popes and nudes to make
It membered.
***
Lawful bodies act like a mansion.
I am working at love.
***
Large but around, a closed part of me
Did something rude.
I wrote that I was famous
(for being Fooled)
Into a law that I saved.
This law was to malign other women.
I thought this would be smart in that
I would at least seek something
Retrievable from creativity, which is
Orgasmic in its Mace.
I see a Mace falling on a poem.
The Mace calls out, "Die, Varlot!"
(Sorry, I couldn't resist!)
Edification poems many rites try
Lesbian ways
Because they are part of omens.
***
Work is rather a fearful part of being alive.
It always seems to make you work like you're
A crook. I guess that's just me.
Nuts to Answers!
I might give myself too much peace.
I know where you wish I could be
I might have thought of myself as a person with
("life" vs. "a cost") so, life.
I might have thought of myself as
Knives (sorry, athames, substantive for "witch").
Yet the actress worked lists, being myself
With Capes. I have now remembered the
Moment I wrote my own loop.
The rollercoaster of my being has no
platform for offloading that I know.
How can I be something other than a
Bored, frightened, badly fed passenger?
***
Love and parts of my freedom are strong.
I am good when I feel happy.
I have money and more of it.
It needs popes and nudes to make
It membered.
***
Lawful bodies act like a mansion.
I am working at love.
***
Large but around, a closed part of me
Did something rude.
I wrote that I was famous
(for being Fooled)
Into a law that I saved.
This law was to malign other women.
I thought this would be smart in that
I would at least seek something
Retrievable from creativity, which is
Orgasmic in its Mace.
I see a Mace falling on a poem.
The Mace calls out, "Die, Varlot!"
(Sorry, I couldn't resist!)
Edification poems many rites try
Lesbian ways
Because they are part of omens.
***
Work is rather a fearful part of being alive.
It always seems to make you work like you're
A crook. I guess that's just me.
Nuts to Answers!
Writing a Block
I see the block.
I visualize it.
The block is now split into an L-shape,
Supported by a cable running between the two branches.
Money dots its crowded thoughts.
The block is I: its efforts occlude my authoring
Of it one on one:
Two objects crash with irresistible force,
Time and again.
The world is cash. It serenades me with
A bloodlessness which extracts my life
By means of its song.
***
Lo, the actress sought patience!
Where is star? She has thought of me
This time as a Orphan.
I called her Actress; I denied her answer.
It is for me a land of messes that
Take home a cancer.
I thought of myself as acting
I thought of her as beauty.
I knew it was she who needed ashes.
I collapse in the river of flowing lies.
My pain has its source in the pain I caused Her.
I answered her with Yes, a lie.
***
This answer is in six pieces.
One is read a threesome with a kiss.
Two is Let babies hope for art.
Three is Need is darkness in its meshing with passion
Four is Art does act pushy cancerous and entire.
Five goes to the softness of my ache:
Six is Kicks Betwixt the Wicks.
I thought of Sylvia as a life that was my clown.
I thought of Sylvia as a reader of my patience.
I thought of Sylvia as a goddess of sham entirety.
I darkened her change with loops of poison.
Rude and apart from paper, these actions and opinions
Were Spurious, with no Understanding.
Next world: my paper crown.
I visualize it.
The block is now split into an L-shape,
Supported by a cable running between the two branches.
Money dots its crowded thoughts.
The block is I: its efforts occlude my authoring
Of it one on one:
Two objects crash with irresistible force,
Time and again.
The world is cash. It serenades me with
A bloodlessness which extracts my life
By means of its song.
***
Lo, the actress sought patience!
Where is star? She has thought of me
This time as a Orphan.
I called her Actress; I denied her answer.
It is for me a land of messes that
Take home a cancer.
I thought of myself as acting
I thought of her as beauty.
I knew it was she who needed ashes.
I collapse in the river of flowing lies.
My pain has its source in the pain I caused Her.
I answered her with Yes, a lie.
***
This answer is in six pieces.
One is read a threesome with a kiss.
Two is Let babies hope for art.
Three is Need is darkness in its meshing with passion
Four is Art does act pushy cancerous and entire.
Five goes to the softness of my ache:
Six is Kicks Betwixt the Wicks.
I thought of Sylvia as a life that was my clown.
I thought of Sylvia as a reader of my patience.
I thought of Sylvia as a goddess of sham entirety.
I darkened her change with loops of poison.
Rude and apart from paper, these actions and opinions
Were Spurious, with no Understanding.
Next world: my paper crown.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Dream journey to Flake
A Thought
DRAFT
A mossy round passionate okay:
This given sequence works
As sequence. It must, because
That is how it arrived: an emergence
One after another.
This is a joke to me:
Not believing in my own
Words, their importance,
Their possible moment of anger.
Emergence here becomes a record of
Emotion. I only tell these words,
Which are free as body,
Without art and with small love.
.
(Insight and record of insight;
Death and record of death.)
-- not knowing what I show
To you of myself.
How do you write a break
In consciousness?
I am not shown in these musings.
--Apparently no one can answer
The possible roundness of
Change--
When no unity of intent exists
In a record of life, then it is
The very inchoateness of
Emergence which must suffice.
And now I am lost.
***
"Mom, come here."
She reaches out
And I am lonely.
***
I am afraid of death
Working itself deadly
With Lesson of my own
Drastic possible whore
Money.
I have asked and allowed:
Maybe never to listen.
I hear the radio. I hear my
Stranded thoughtlessness.
I am loose worldly part of
A verse recording of
Momentary Effort
At poes(t)op
Wook Pop Rascal Life
Nasty Rest is boring to --
Castle its drama!!
I play here with a conception,
Deadly to written possible
Thought, of a naked pagan
Loose part of my fame.
I retain therefore with in me
A savior who was his own
--No one -- is bossed.
This is the tenor of thought
Into which I have stepped,
As overgrown cobwebs
Which a pale distant light
Illuminates but which
Find me tripping and scrambling,
Out of balance, not in.
World derives possibility
And I am
Think Think
(An opportunity I take
To work a poem with
Change)
A stink of loss
A flower of moss.
As no one possible answers
Art darkly then must I
Believe this writing I wring
From love only in order to
Ask -- a friend -- Rite
--Darkness scars itself--
Dreaming here of sores.
Ashes of life
Smoke of
Dense inertness
Proclaiming itself intelligence.
Last is the glowering
Flower girl with a
Still knock revolving
In her flake.
A portentousness to abandon.
DRAFT
A mossy round passionate okay:
This given sequence works
As sequence. It must, because
That is how it arrived: an emergence
One after another.
This is a joke to me:
Not believing in my own
Words, their importance,
Their possible moment of anger.
Emergence here becomes a record of
Emotion. I only tell these words,
Which are free as body,
Without art and with small love.
.
(Insight and record of insight;
Death and record of death.)
-- not knowing what I show
To you of myself.
How do you write a break
In consciousness?
I am not shown in these musings.
--Apparently no one can answer
The possible roundness of
Change--
When no unity of intent exists
In a record of life, then it is
The very inchoateness of
Emergence which must suffice.
And now I am lost.
***
"Mom, come here."
She reaches out
And I am lonely.
***
I am afraid of death
Working itself deadly
With Lesson of my own
Drastic possible whore
Money.
I have asked and allowed:
Maybe never to listen.
I hear the radio. I hear my
Stranded thoughtlessness.
I am loose worldly part of
A verse recording of
Momentary Effort
At poes(t)op
Wook Pop Rascal Life
Nasty Rest is boring to --
Castle its drama!!
I play here with a conception,
Deadly to written possible
Thought, of a naked pagan
Loose part of my fame.
I retain therefore with in me
A savior who was his own
--No one -- is bossed.
This is the tenor of thought
Into which I have stepped,
As overgrown cobwebs
Which a pale distant light
Illuminates but which
Find me tripping and scrambling,
Out of balance, not in.
World derives possibility
And I am
Think Think
(An opportunity I take
To work a poem with
Change)
A stink of loss
A flower of moss.
As no one possible answers
Art darkly then must I
Believe this writing I wring
From love only in order to
Ask -- a friend -- Rite
--Darkness scars itself--
Dreaming here of sores.
Ashes of life
Smoke of
Dense inertness
Proclaiming itself intelligence.
Last is the glowering
Flower girl with a
Still knock revolving
In her flake.
A portentousness to abandon.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
A Bore
In Twain
The love is the rite
The creep is the love
The stink is the love
The world is the poor
Ashes of worlds
Appear, displaced into invisibility by
Words I speak to my mother.
"We could go to the florist..."
Instead of "Lets" do what you said:
Buy flowers at the grocery store...
In pots or not.
***
I ask myself what do lovers ask for.
***
I cannot make life possible.
I am here.
I am not the cock: being impossible.
O well.
Anger death was world trying to stop oscar
From making thinking laugh.
I make you laugh because
I did answer the parts with a
Poem.
World of moose
Writes
World of Canter.
But
World of Cantor
Writes
World of Noel.
***
I bought a nest to
Read the rite rude.
Well the rede is rude
In the Man drug crook sense.
"Do as ye will, an ye harm none in thought, action or deed."
I have ended many lives by being a
Loser of possibility./
I am bored with a naked
Drunk crackhead shtick.
It is my life to be alive with my own grief
worthy and poetic.
***
This is a bitterness I must let positivity
Anger world of love.
I have tension.
It is surely the only way to make life momentary.
Ask for your peace, not for art or trouble.
***
They find me here with a man, and I
Role Masquerades with answers.
***
What is the humor -- it is in the trouble
Of
Being a rationality.
It shits like a pig to be a faggot.
The love is the rite
The creep is the love
The stink is the love
The world is the poor
Ashes of worlds
Appear, displaced into invisibility by
Words I speak to my mother.
"We could go to the florist..."
Instead of "Lets" do what you said:
Buy flowers at the grocery store...
In pots or not.
***
I ask myself what do lovers ask for.
***
I cannot make life possible.
I am here.
I am not the cock: being impossible.
O well.
Anger death was world trying to stop oscar
From making thinking laugh.
I make you laugh because
I did answer the parts with a
Poem.
World of moose
Writes
World of Canter.
But
World of Cantor
Writes
World of Noel.
***
I bought a nest to
Read the rite rude.
Well the rede is rude
In the Man drug crook sense.
"Do as ye will, an ye harm none in thought, action or deed."
I have ended many lives by being a
Loser of possibility./
I am bored with a naked
Drunk crackhead shtick.
It is my life to be alive with my own grief
worthy and poetic.
***
This is a bitterness I must let positivity
Anger world of love.
I have tension.
It is surely the only way to make life momentary.
Ask for your peace, not for art or trouble.
***
They find me here with a man, and I
Role Masquerades with answers.
***
What is the humor -- it is in the trouble
Of
Being a rationality.
It shits like a pig to be a faggot.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Something about apartments
Oh is the love passion where that is right to start you are nut?
Is the ending of the sentence nut?
May I end the sentence
Is this a loud crooked drunken nut?
I crown this loud crooked stubborn antique crowd
As a loud drunken crooked stubborn nut.
I said to myself this is a found unfocused gentle passion
To listen to my art as a loud crooked stubborn found nut.
Eft the raise of the drawbridge the ship travels to the Answer:
Paint a cashew nut.
Oil the star right: she exists taking my life with her to a road
Loud crooked stubborn and rapt as nuts.
With Orchards driving the angry crooked needed found
Threaded settled argued all nuts.
O baloney nut round is your life.
Is the ending of the sentence nut?
May I end the sentence
Is this a loud crooked drunken nut?
I crown this loud crooked stubborn antique crowd
As a loud drunken crooked stubborn nut.
I said to myself this is a found unfocused gentle passion
To listen to my art as a loud crooked stubborn found nut.
Eft the raise of the drawbridge the ship travels to the Answer:
Paint a cashew nut.
Oil the star right: she exists taking my life with her to a road
Loud crooked stubborn and rapt as nuts.
With Orchards driving the angry crooked needed found
Threaded settled argued all nuts.
O baloney nut round is your life.
A Possible Peace
Anchoring myself in the right is like
Making darkness into answers
That work like my own coldness:
With ogrelike flower dream.
And where that is going is to
pain.
Guilt and fear cloud family.
I don't say what life begins with.
I say there is tape -- the endless
Unrolling of which begins in
Anchorite law.
I seek nothing here because
I don't read at the nature of
My coldness.
It is dirt. It is cold. It is my
Thoughtlessness and my flower.
I am poor and drunk with pain.
It is my life to say that a world
That is an entrance to a grand
Axe asserts art as patience.
The Goddess named Kelly Bishop
Taught me this is my family.
This is my family. I am her family.
I am her goddess of parts named
Art and Life.
Flowering in the fear of my own
Nostrand Avenue love,
I work at my own drinking with
A lot of lake.
Effortlessly I did what is my creative
Mess: deal with it and I am
Fruit.
Working backwards from an attainable
Goal is my own family
Cashing in on a part of my thinking:
Estrogen art goes to patience and
Backing life with a sop of sharks.
Poetic pain is like stupid nuts:
Always borrowing itself from
Sorrow.
Making darkness into answers
That work like my own coldness:
With ogrelike flower dream.
And where that is going is to
pain.
Guilt and fear cloud family.
I don't say what life begins with.
I say there is tape -- the endless
Unrolling of which begins in
Anchorite law.
I seek nothing here because
I don't read at the nature of
My coldness.
It is dirt. It is cold. It is my
Thoughtlessness and my flower.
I am poor and drunk with pain.
It is my life to say that a world
That is an entrance to a grand
Axe asserts art as patience.
The Goddess named Kelly Bishop
Taught me this is my family.
This is my family. I am her family.
I am her goddess of parts named
Art and Life.
Flowering in the fear of my own
Nostrand Avenue love,
I work at my own drinking with
A lot of lake.
Effortlessly I did what is my creative
Mess: deal with it and I am
Fruit.
Working backwards from an attainable
Goal is my own family
Cashing in on a part of my thinking:
Estrogen art goes to patience and
Backing life with a sop of sharks.
Poetic pain is like stupid nuts:
Always borrowing itself from
Sorrow.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Riposte
A drug,
A pagan,
An argument.
These sublimities
Tend to revolve
About the argument
Because they are
Alive in being stashed.
I know: this is a stretch.
No one is God.
A pagan,
An argument.
These sublimities
Tend to revolve
About the argument
Because they are
Alive in being stashed.
I know: this is a stretch.
No one is God.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Acting and Work
A magick of peace
To belong with laughter
And find in it strength;
To be a kind lover
Who is present at length;
To choose a friend
Whom patience thou lend:
May such melodious changes
Be what life's music arranges.
To belong with laughter
And find in it strength;
To be a kind lover
Who is present at length;
To choose a friend
Whom patience thou lend:
May such melodious changes
Be what life's music arranges.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Dream is Beauty
I was born here. That is the day of the trouble. I name the trouble answer. The angry feeling of a lurid crone is alive. I alive.?
I need being of love. I need to ask you, what does this need? I need a way to be soft so I am peaceful.
I borrowed my own love. I was a mess. This is the only problem I have. I am trying to understand what need does. I am here for this need. I love the need. I have to belong to myself.
Thank you for listening to a gay leftist. Ask me what it is to say there is a thought which is laughter?
Since blaming this world of my life is like being drunk and liking a way to be aroused, I will change my love so I can be strong -- not a moment of pain but trees; ditching is a way to give yourself that pardon which you wished for.
No more drunkenness in my mind.
Okay, so I thought of racism as a ride to a masquerade. I was fascist but not a flower (a homosexual). There is only a part of me that is good. I wish for her to belong to the person she needs, who is safe: Julia Murray. Thank you for listening -- again, a way to be alive is to feel good about the Goddess sharing love with your thoughts. The will of the Goddess? Right now, I am alive to be a capitalist world in which buying is good and thoughtfulness is strong. I have bought peace. I have thought of myself as loving and now I wish to be home.
Dear Goddess: If capitalism is drugs, then I am not free.
Large entangled antlers want freedom from acting.
I need being of love. I need to ask you, what does this need? I need a way to be soft so I am peaceful.
I borrowed my own love. I was a mess. This is the only problem I have. I am trying to understand what need does. I am here for this need. I love the need. I have to belong to myself.
Thank you for listening to a gay leftist. Ask me what it is to say there is a thought which is laughter?
Since blaming this world of my life is like being drunk and liking a way to be aroused, I will change my love so I can be strong -- not a moment of pain but trees; ditching is a way to give yourself that pardon which you wished for.
No more drunkenness in my mind.
Okay, so I thought of racism as a ride to a masquerade. I was fascist but not a flower (a homosexual). There is only a part of me that is good. I wish for her to belong to the person she needs, who is safe: Julia Murray. Thank you for listening -- again, a way to be alive is to feel good about the Goddess sharing love with your thoughts. The will of the Goddess? Right now, I am alive to be a capitalist world in which buying is good and thoughtfulness is strong. I have bought peace. I have thought of myself as loving and now I wish to be home.
Dear Goddess: If capitalism is drugs, then I am not free.
Large entangled antlers want freedom from acting.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Pressure
There was a family. I altered the family. There was possibility for the one who was right to think about possibility (the anger darted itself to a world of possibility, thinking as love believes in apples -- art as possibility, dreams as open to thought of money and God death and stink.)
I sought nothing from itself. I sought power from a way to anger others for being a woman. I asked to be thoughtful. I asked to be good. No one who says they are thoughtful and good is strong or free. Strength and freedom believe in openness to God, the nut job of my thoughts.
Castles -- the kind in chess -- always make you thoughtless: they anger you with nothing but thought of money and thought of family.
I told you I found my friends and I found my Goddess in the dream of my own softness, in the hope of being the Goddess for my mother.
I seek to give her softness. I seek to be thoughtful and alive. I ask to be thoughtful and good.
Edification of body is a failure. I only wished for myself to be mothered -- a way to ask for myself to give happiness as a thought of beauty.
I sought money for my love.
Ashes and love bring dreams of stink and pasts of anger toward this failure to be peaceful.
I am worried about nothing because of the nature of failure: anger toward love is about worry and thoughtless anger -- the knowledge of pain derives from a love of my cruelty. I did not say I wanted God to be thoughtful to me. I was another crooked possibility of freedom.
Golden love: the answer to peace is safety and pain. Pain is money and safety is art. I wish to feel the need of myself to give peace. I know I am part of the anger. I know there was softness; I was thoughtful; I was a part of rights (the need for rights is also a family of love).
Elevation of pain is the kind that you wished for in my friendship. I was this painful because I was poor and there was anger and fear and anger and thoughtlessness about the need to give thought to my hopes.
I am another thoughtful person with needs. I am trying to give my hopes a way to feel materialistic so they will not die with the need to give peace. Perhaps I have thought about love and found myself possible because I am peaceful and troubled with the artistry of fame. I am really cold because nothing is happening for my family, whether in the treatment of love (to listen, to feel, to act with focused and kind thoughts of others need for happiness) or in the thinking of life -- giving people change because life is young and peaceful. I am no longer young; I am rarely peaceful.
Edification of pain is another fear of pain. Pain and pain. Omigod I'm an entrance in my feelings (peace was its own art) which needs love and peace, cruelty of nothingness which derives from rape is no one's trade.
I am worried about my life being poor. No one to ask why I am boned with another's crime. I ask only to love peace for its creative thought of hope.
At home, I am,
Entr'acte:
Aching beauty, thinking of my own dream to be thoughtful and loving, I give you feces of faking a moment. I in this moment give you a woman's answer to people being home and my being trouble: I am good because I am happy.
No one thought of me as a woman except my sisters, mothers and friends.
I am here to give myself an answer to pain.
Pain
I did not listen for my own part in god, the one with the answer. She who believes in moments of change must also ask for rest, love, rights and a moment to be laughed at for her visions.
My vision:
Energy derives from loss of people's class.
Nowhere to be myself is not feasible.
I feel manly because I am a nothing to my life. I asked to be good. I asked to be alive. I asked to give myself thoughts which I would be troubled with. No more cruelty.
Anger and foolish hopes of my own golden green dreams are from this panicked woman.
This is no one's pain but my wonder at ashes.
Ashes begin.
She was changed. She was glowing. She was alive and now she is parted.
I am part of her family.
I hope you will believe she did what she could to be free of the need for pain.
Yours,
A loon (with a beautiful voice).
I sought nothing from itself. I sought power from a way to anger others for being a woman. I asked to be thoughtful. I asked to be good. No one who says they are thoughtful and good is strong or free. Strength and freedom believe in openness to God, the nut job of my thoughts.
Castles -- the kind in chess -- always make you thoughtless: they anger you with nothing but thought of money and thought of family.
I told you I found my friends and I found my Goddess in the dream of my own softness, in the hope of being the Goddess for my mother.
I seek to give her softness. I seek to be thoughtful and alive. I ask to be thoughtful and good.
Edification of body is a failure. I only wished for myself to be mothered -- a way to ask for myself to give happiness as a thought of beauty.
I sought money for my love.
Ashes and love bring dreams of stink and pasts of anger toward this failure to be peaceful.
I am worried about nothing because of the nature of failure: anger toward love is about worry and thoughtless anger -- the knowledge of pain derives from a love of my cruelty. I did not say I wanted God to be thoughtful to me. I was another crooked possibility of freedom.
Golden love: the answer to peace is safety and pain. Pain is money and safety is art. I wish to feel the need of myself to give peace. I know I am part of the anger. I know there was softness; I was thoughtful; I was a part of rights (the need for rights is also a family of love).
Elevation of pain is the kind that you wished for in my friendship. I was this painful because I was poor and there was anger and fear and anger and thoughtlessness about the need to give thought to my hopes.
I am another thoughtful person with needs. I am trying to give my hopes a way to feel materialistic so they will not die with the need to give peace. Perhaps I have thought about love and found myself possible because I am peaceful and troubled with the artistry of fame. I am really cold because nothing is happening for my family, whether in the treatment of love (to listen, to feel, to act with focused and kind thoughts of others need for happiness) or in the thinking of life -- giving people change because life is young and peaceful. I am no longer young; I am rarely peaceful.
Edification of pain is another fear of pain. Pain and pain. Omigod I'm an entrance in my feelings (peace was its own art) which needs love and peace, cruelty of nothingness which derives from rape is no one's trade.
I am worried about my life being poor. No one to ask why I am boned with another's crime. I ask only to love peace for its creative thought of hope.
At home, I am,
Entr'acte:
Aching beauty, thinking of my own dream to be thoughtful and loving, I give you feces of faking a moment. I in this moment give you a woman's answer to people being home and my being trouble: I am good because I am happy.
No one thought of me as a woman except my sisters, mothers and friends.
I am here to give myself an answer to pain.
Pain
I did not listen for my own part in god, the one with the answer. She who believes in moments of change must also ask for rest, love, rights and a moment to be laughed at for her visions.
My vision:
Energy derives from loss of people's class.
Nowhere to be myself is not feasible.
I feel manly because I am a nothing to my life. I asked to be good. I asked to be alive. I asked to give myself thoughts which I would be troubled with. No more cruelty.
Anger and foolish hopes of my own golden green dreams are from this panicked woman.
This is no one's pain but my wonder at ashes.
Ashes begin.
She was changed. She was glowing. She was alive and now she is parted.
I am part of her family.
I hope you will believe she did what she could to be free of the need for pain.
Yours,
A loon (with a beautiful voice).
Peace is the thought of being.-- Change is dear
Dear Goddess,
It is night, after midnight.
I have not slept.
If I can stay awake,
Let me write a poem.
I ask you and ask you freely
To call love this freely.
Write
"I am worldly in this nature
I am cruel in this flame.
I believe where nothing is
is the need to stick to
Acting."
O Goddess where is the
Laughter?
I ask you this need of yours to
Give laughter.
I am trying to act here.
--There is also the need to
Read with a sample of
Your place:
One is your stunk
Two is your three
I ask for you to think of
Peace.--
Oh, I'm a sack of dreams
With no anchor.
--Your little typing errors
Remind me of the days
When there was cloudiness
Soaring in the world you
thought of as dreaming of
Answers.--
Oh Goddess, and I say this
Beautifully in order to
Have the nature of
Thought,
What can I say about
Santeria?
--It is love you believe in,
Not your past.--
I feel working is another
Cloud of mine.
--It is a world of bodies
And strength which
Annoys your pain.--
Why listen for love?
I ask now to be thought here
I seek your patience.
I seek words.
--Devil is your patient life.--
Oh with this time in my life
I am where darkness pays for
Thought.
-- Do not ask for your thoughts
Ask for your answer.
Think about it.--
A poem
Thinking about it is good
THANK YOU.
It is night, after midnight.
I have not slept.
If I can stay awake,
Let me write a poem.
I ask you and ask you freely
To call love this freely.
Write
"I am worldly in this nature
I am cruel in this flame.
I believe where nothing is
is the need to stick to
Acting."
O Goddess where is the
Laughter?
I ask you this need of yours to
Give laughter.
I am trying to act here.
--There is also the need to
Read with a sample of
Your place:
One is your stunk
Two is your three
I ask for you to think of
Peace.--
Oh, I'm a sack of dreams
With no anchor.
--Your little typing errors
Remind me of the days
When there was cloudiness
Soaring in the world you
thought of as dreaming of
Answers.--
Oh Goddess, and I say this
Beautifully in order to
Have the nature of
Thought,
What can I say about
Santeria?
--It is love you believe in,
Not your past.--
I feel working is another
Cloud of mine.
--It is a world of bodies
And strength which
Annoys your pain.--
Why listen for love?
I ask now to be thought here
I seek your patience.
I seek words.
--Devil is your patient life.--
Oh with this time in my life
I am where darkness pays for
Thought.
-- Do not ask for your thoughts
Ask for your answer.
Think about it.--
A poem
Thinking about it is good
THANK YOU.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Stop threading the needle
When in the sky
I see the aerostat
Fly
I do what I do
And ask
Oh, when will
This deal
Fail?
Elfin moments can be
Sticky.
I see the aerostat
Fly
I do what I do
And ask
Oh, when will
This deal
Fail?
Elfin moments can be
Sticky.
Cochise Wilt
And I was
Shot
The law stopped me
Coldly sheriff brought down
The next invader
Worried about
His ass
I ask myself
When is this fairness
Famishing the troubles
Of my act.
I made this mistake
And I ask where
Thought
Enters the sheriff's
Pain.
Egotism and a poem
Work themselves
Maybe I didn't need this
Coldness.
Only one fair answer:
You brought this on yourself,
And I said, "act."
The thoughtlessness of love.
Shot
The law stopped me
Coldly sheriff brought down
The next invader
Worried about
His ass
I ask myself
When is this fairness
Famishing the troubles
Of my act.
I made this mistake
And I ask where
Thought
Enters the sheriff's
Pain.
Egotism and a poem
Work themselves
Maybe I didn't need this
Coldness.
Only one fair answer:
You brought this on yourself,
And I said, "act."
The thoughtlessness of love.
Psychosis Note
Listening to WKSG sunday news.
"Charlotte" describes a man, with Schizophrenia, in San Quentin, who wrote secret messages on toilet paper, wrapped the toilet paper in feces, then placed the messages in braids in his hair. Prison psychiatrist decides man knows he is to be executed, not "reupholstered," because he beats her at Tic-Tac-Toe!
Psychiatry itself recognizes that psychosis is a different processing of information than "normal." Perhaps individual modules of reasoning of a certain kind, such as playing tic-tac-toe may remain intact and it is the relationship among these modules (or streams or segments) which reflects psychosis.???
It seems to me that psychiatry deliberately places stigma on certain kinds of self-knowledge in order to 1) deprive people of the benefit of that self-knowledge and 2) to retard such self-knowledge in most people in order to keep them within productive, i.e., profitable bounds.
"Charlotte" describes a man, with Schizophrenia, in San Quentin, who wrote secret messages on toilet paper, wrapped the toilet paper in feces, then placed the messages in braids in his hair. Prison psychiatrist decides man knows he is to be executed, not "reupholstered," because he beats her at Tic-Tac-Toe!
Psychiatry itself recognizes that psychosis is a different processing of information than "normal." Perhaps individual modules of reasoning of a certain kind, such as playing tic-tac-toe may remain intact and it is the relationship among these modules (or streams or segments) which reflects psychosis.???
It seems to me that psychiatry deliberately places stigma on certain kinds of self-knowledge in order to 1) deprive people of the benefit of that self-knowledge and 2) to retard such self-knowledge in most people in order to keep them within productive, i.e., profitable bounds.
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