Rose, Stone, Bone

War More Gore Store Lore Fore Roar Door


What mama is a woman dealing it as thought?
What forensic ecstasy involves death as a heck/ler taking race dreaming of a poem fighting a
rap land sticking art into a thinking bargain?
I suck ass.
Droll and flowery, I say baloney to you for the impossible shriek; with a manly seeking of failure, I give you a bomb work of mine treating me like I am poor.  Feelings seek reasons for me; I know what it is to ask for dirt and receive a failing belief in peace...


No one is the same when bodies of all the failing grievers act bodily in their own pact for a brainy tree.  The Goddess feels loving for her beautiful family and knows that when you are thoughtful that bodies give you sassy dear rolls.


I wondered whether you felt my mind was a good thing.  Is there a life in my racism that belongs to the painful yet chunky cruelty that no one belongs with?  I am not God.  I am not thought.  I am not sexy.  I am not a thoughtful person.  I tell you body and thought and sickness are the only parts of me that I can act for and still know that I give home to a roman banger.


Man and Woman be safe in their places.  I have no belief in people who have no thought of ever knowing me as a thinker of best things such as anger and hope and wordy drinking thinking freedoms.


I work believing in my answer (pee is work).


My dear father often sought peace in being good to his own drums.  I had no interest in thinking bodies seek me.  I have thought of the Goddess artist drumming her mind teaching me thinking is hope.


No one knows the anger when I feel burrowed into with a famous payment.  The knowledge that I belong to these suffering entrances is quite sobering,  somber as a thinking roman.


Cicero and Horace and Vergil and Suetonius and Tacitus and Caesar and Vespasian and Marcus Aurelius and Livy and Fremont, California.


I work this way and I am not that free in my thoughts.  It is my thought that I have no wish to understand those women dreaming of thinking bodies as knowledge.


I sought the companionship and community of racks and maniacal thinkers with their people who would rather hit me over a deck of family than love me for my happy Goddess.


I ran deep into the failings of a people who wished to only live freely and peacefully.  They had no desire for me to hate them because they had no peace.  I hated the black woman I loved.  She belonged to the nature of the Goddess.  I could not believe she happened my life had its own tree.


I womaned the Goddess with my angry thinking.  I embraced the anchor of bodies with its natural family cruelty.  There, I have veered into "natural" thinking.  Let me detach myself from such untoward anger.  I MUST love, not be another rosy bobo.  It is I, It is Me, It is the sexiness of men with bodies that need creative dreams that belong with me.  What is it to find rejection in the midst of plenty?  I feel that the more I give, the less beauty I will ever believe in.  Is that my doing?


Work in East New York:  The land that is for my life gave me another understanding of love and stars.  I did not believe that I felt happy.  No one ever knows what is love without beauty.  I wished that I was *****, a hue of the rainbow that is in back of the stars and beneath the world; underneath and beyond, before and within.  Here we go.