Holes

I thought that vaginas were holes.

Poseidon, Pollux, Pan, gaze at my face.

It is my coldness that made me a no one.  I have no god for my asterisk.

Please give me one word:  ask.

Is God's shit illuminated?

Which God?

Notes:

Medieval manuscripts' illumination of initial capitals was particularly intricate and beautiful, being accomplished with gold leaf.

Now if the creator of the universe in fact excreted waste, there is a likelihood that his (and I write "his" on the provisional supposition that the illuminating monks, servants of God, were correct in their claims about his identity with Jehovah) leavings would shine in the universe like the firmament, like the brightest of stars and the glowing gases that give us galaxies to gaze upon.

Since no one of spiritual repute refers in any writing that I have seen to ANY God having intestinal products of any description and given that this note is taking a toll on me in queasy exhaustion, I will quit the central conceit of its conception and refer rather than to God's waste instead to human love.

I do not believe that God derives possibility from my answers to life.  God to me is at a vast remove from such matters.
]
I think of why there is a family that I need.  I think of why I called to the arts and to the pain of my laughter (I was rude) and for hope.  I love the language of my calling.  It is good to be stable at the home of my peace.

I return to asking for myself what does it matter for me to give you a world?  For these words contain in them a majesty of realization, of perspective, of life that do not originate in mere play with trivial desiderata.  I know that the entirety of my mental, emotional and even Physical efforts for the last 20 some years have an energy to them that I contain as an ark of passion and peace which I wish to share with those who have an interest and an ability to perceive in another human being's life the material for understanding and reconstituting their own foundations to the extent that I have.

Since I have grasped at the powers of many substances I wish to declare as a disclaimer that no one will ever believe my peace is God.  I have no indication myself that this is at all possibly so.  But that it is of a divinity that I have both absorbed and exemplified I am more or less aware.

Please be strong enough to admit that passage in adversity produces energies that when released make always a vision of mostly justice.
]
]You know that you believe my life did not begin with kindness as a patient presence in many of its potentialities.

I did not make you my body.  I did not make you my friend.  I have merely asked for a bit of freedom to say that God never treats people as if they are holes in the solidity of matter.  That is what I detected in my less than free apprehension of women's bodies in the various sexual escapades I made between the age of 21 and 28.

I am a roman archer. 

Many People Shit Like God

O well

Ashes!

I work another claim.  It is work to string your friends along with a hostess/home/hope working words with drunkenness.  I work because it is I love you and what I did with my life and nothing got me ashes!

Nothing is beans.  I have no goddess drinking me and nothingness opens to afterness.  It is the negativity of wankers that is my life. 
They give me a fuck and I act like a whore.

It is my core art to say life is moosey.


And now you can be roman.


Elliot.

I like myself for the sake of my hopes and woman

I have no idea

This life has words and I have my own ashes

And that is a orgy for a post-op inches

Abe
Ace

Are

Awe

No one has another afterness and omens work days
I like love worlds of life art goddesses nike and bart.

It is your fun that I wanted.

Ha love.

Oh well.

Act affectively

I cannot die without answering my kind peace.

I know that it is worse than a whore to feel nothing.

I cannot say acting is a word.

This knowledge is the only woman.

You belong to art.  You are womanly.  You are poems.


Elevated acting got me stupid.

I like this.  This is an acting of my act.  It is my act to give acting words.  If you want me to give you a national woman, I will be a people.

At a woman with no art, Me.