I am backed up, pickled inside myself.
Over and over again I try to formulate a great whore (sorry, I mean a great stance/approach/in tension/freedom/lifeplan) and it is me I understand that I cannot make into africa. I am not the unknown "dark" continent. I am not the land of change and hope. I am not america, europe, asia, australia or antarctica. Why I don't have a strong sense of what to do at each moment disturbs me. I don't even care about my africans. My africans are land and darkness; trees and women; freedom and love. I approach each word as a wonder to emerge from my verbal ability and become on the page an exact similitude to the state of existence I face.
No word or art can be a direct copy of reality.
This act of mine becomes a lowly room of lonely struggle. I have no patience for my reasons, my mommy loved me (this is a certainty and a cry to be loved and deservedly) please echo stop it.
I am sore at the laughter made by shaman darkness. It haunts me; and chases me with thought scattered and bent before it.
Nothing causes body. It simply is.
I have not paralleled my laughter with peace. I have not given kindness with my medicine. No spoonful of sugar.
Please I need to continue saying here what I believe.
I believe that only my god is the freedom to become strong. (An error, a lie, a delusion) Dear Goddess please include laughter in the rant/poop/weird/cause. I do not care there is god only a god to believe in who does care about dad and my grief for my past.
I am in my past; I am in a lonely rude cruel angry lonely wordless tree.
Dear Goddess, this weird place is not that peaceful. I am the place of which I write. Dear Goddess, this lament, this outcry places pain inside the care I have. I know my brother needed a good weird plot to create. He cannot, nonetheless, create me as that or anything else.
I seize upon the troubles. The troubles seize upon me.
Dear reasons, where is the priest? where is the dream?
I saw this weird (me) as God. I saw this pain as laughter (because you and I became one).
We are apart. This Atlantis I saw, Chelsea, was not our personal becoming one but an intermingling of laughter hope and kindness.
I saw a future, I saw the loss of spirit, the beginning of rivalry, the work that I must do (here I must describe it) is that laughter that becomes peace. The ride of my life was a band. I was a marching band trombonist, a dance band trombonist and a concert band trombonist. With the cruelty of attachment and application to a task set before me (but by whom and for what purpose?) I become angry. This one place is a dark andrea lawed by poems and illness. This illness is hate. This illness is anger. This illness became a bomb in my cruelty toward God.
Dear Goddess, may the lilies, the green bananas, the chimpanzees, Jane Goodall, Andrea, laughter , love and will listen for this Goddess (a dried pain weird as nut).
So the claim of immortality died when I closed my work into line.
