A Sierra Vista Library Post

Density is a baby.  Nurture her.  Protect her.  Love her. 


A paper Mask is Art.

Discourse without marsha

I thought of myself because it is my friends who are free from affirmation.  I do not believe that.

I think of myself as peaceful.

Why no Marsha?  She is life.  She is love.

I was probably trying to make this another wonderful fried word salad drunkenness art product.

But I need to say that without Marsha I would have been my own rudeness, i.e. a butch artist of crack.  I think of myelf as hopeful and it is probably because she knew family.

Sylvia learned love from ?

She knew Marsha as a woman.  I never knew her. 

Why no life or love?  Because with freedom trouble has answers.  Freedom is not because of being, it is because of pasts.  I do not know what to believe in.  I thought of myself because I am my own panderer.

I would like to be more in touch with my thoughts and be safe with them.  I thought life meant pain.

It is part of myself and that is cruel.

I need to write down why it is that no one gives me my own ocean.

It is probably because I am not a land of brides, i.e. teachers.

I am very sorry about this envy problem.  It is not seemly or easy for anyone to like.

That is what is good to me:  Anger for art.  Nothing is good if that is my being.

I need to say that I need happy things.  I need thoughtful and safe people to believe in me.

I have had that.  I threw it away to be a drunken loss to life.  (With drunkenness I put all substances).

I am sorry for all this wordy answer.  I hope you like trees.  There need to be trees.

And you are people and beautiful.

Acting is another fuss.

Word Actress

Upon

A far the ashes part art
A thwart of a marked dart

I gaily try a passionate road.

No one reads a chart
Or wart.

Affirmative Life.




Boil

Needing Yodels
Patiently Deal

You think of
Tasks

The priest foams
Darkly in his stash.




Was heart tree?

Family is a tree.
You fiend and you rascal,
I made home a fool.

Nothing goddess made hope
Has a new toss.

Woman apart a calm
Part works yards.

I love you because
You are dashing.



Soil

Crone changes dreams
When young streams




I worried about clowns
Last week they were
People's life art cry wash.



Life is a Drum

Wash a round half
With facts hushing
Roses.





Easy write
Hopeful light.

Dear Goddess

Back where rights are part of soft lives, I am along here trying to be naked.


It is what I must be for the thoughts I was teaching -- alive for dreams, alive for friends, alive for the trouble that made teaching a castle of possibility.


And where life and peace work as laughter there is peace and love.


Nothing makes sense to a lousy hooker.


I am glad that I am moosey.


Okay, men are people too.  They need change and I need kindness.


Well, okay, that's the way it is.

Openness parts itself with a penis

I ask myself what it is to love.  I have no life in my creative arts.  It is not dreaming patiently.  I am worried about convictions of myself as a natural.  It is my life to be alive.  I cannot believe parts of me are nothing.


Please be good and be loving to your parts.


This makes me laugh -- get it, "parts"?


I wish you did believe in the Goddess because then I would be hopeful and possibly free.


Ask me what it is to love and be rude to yourself.  It is painful and it is lewd.


Please know that I will never be drunk as a fuck.  I will never be afraid to live for life as a woman with answers.


Thank you for being strong.


No one is here to be portrayed as a no one.


Oh well.  Please be right about your thoughts.  They are good for themselves.


I hope you will give up the act of being shit.  I hope you will act like you are strong and treat yourself because of your love for dreams with feelings of capitalism as woman.


There is no good in this fame.


I seek treatment for my family.  I seek love for my being.


Bye for now.

Elegance

Sylvia's elegance


My life with Sylvia Rivera is the one thing that I know of where love and my friends who knew her allow creative passions to be unleashed.


I feel that nothing here is love.  It is the will of home (my will, my home, my body) that I allow parts of my teaching love to be feelings.


I feel that Sylvia knew that I was a bitch.   I know that you do not allow passions such as peace and love to introject life into your answer to the possibilities that lie before all of Earth's children.


No one can be treated as a pariah and find love in passion.  It takes life AND trouble AND parts of peace to believe in making work be another urgency.


I know that all this seems a digression.  I know that there is fun in parts of people's entrance to family.  I know that the God of my friends deals openness because his anger toward men.


No one can be thoughtful about dreams and be alive for empire.


I know that my friends would rather be a part of freedom than be part of this answer.


This answer is:  Be an ostrich.


Put that head in the sand.


I know you would like to be free and be strong.  There is thought in choosing life over anger.


(I treat myself like a has-been because I love it.)


Okay.  Sylvia knew about my troubles.  She allowed me to be her family because I made trouble and was an artist.


If only there were life to be possible in a family.


I know you would like openness and life to be a possibility.  It is thoughtful to love your possibilities.  There is possibly work in the laughter of people. 


Okay, thank you for making this a change.


Sylvia's pulled back hair, her black clothing, her intensity and her devotion to being a
woman all marked here as a priestess.


And now I will be open to you as a moment.


omigod art is another fuck.

Cream Supreme

Baby was right:  I like what authority is.  It makes you kill people for nothing.  That is passion.  No one is a materialist.


It is foolish to be a woman without being passionate.


I am not cunt to be passionate.


I am here to be alive cuz it is my family that made me hope.


No one believes I am home.  No one is here to be alive cuz of me.


I feel nothing for openness.


Dean and I are nothing.


Panic is my nothingness.


If you wish to know what I feel, then be a low pig to be a mess.  Be cruel for art.  Be alive for pain.


I am nothing because there is nothing to give my passion to.  It is my fear of my own life that makes me hope for pain.


If this is hatred, then I am a nothing.


I am part of my own murder.


Sex is what I need and I am foolish because I think no one is here to believe my dreams.


Dreams make me wonder about how life is for my lovers.  They must be famous or alive.


I must be nothing.


So much for money.


I wish love was famous and loving because of strength and freedom.


So much for answers.


Give me something besides taste, like hope, like passion, like my own rights.


Nothing is wrong to my pain.  There is womanliness in art and that is my hope.


As a woman I am a junker.


Go ahead, be hustled.

Real I Deal

The middle term of the title refers of course to myself. 

Nothing will be dreamed of if nothing believes in parts of my life.
I have the anger of failure.  I failed to believe in my dreams.

Nothing is the same without family.

Nothing is the same without love.

No one will be family if I am a strung out shit.

No one will be good to me if I am fried with a loop.

A loop is when you have not the attributes necessary to live life without repetition -- to grow.

I am not good for people to love.

I wish God were a possibility.

As my orgasmic nuts dream of people who are loved, I ask for a part of being.

No one is alive for cruelty.

I have been drunk as a stumbling ash.

I wish I had the energy to draw this all together in some coherent skein of thought.

Instead I wish only to reiterate that money and life are worlds of pain.

As an artist I am a cop.

Now maybe I can gather energies sufficient to accomplish a "goal":  peace and change.

Now it's okay.  Now it's nothing.

Woe to the patient; woe to the hustle.

Now loose bread is worth passion.