Inspiration

I have brought forth coldness and hate.  I have made fear a cruel nest.

These fears were from the dream of creating many dreams.  I knew what it was to make the strong a light for its own peace.

These words indicate and disguise actions and moments and events that I need to be aware of.  I do not know whether to make you aware of them.

I am sure of the need to be one with my own freedom.  I do not know the reason that there is failure in peace.

Strength and beauty are loving with peace, and justice is alive.

Believe me that I am aware of contradictions that run through what I write.  A contradiction -- that which is "against saying," to attempt a literal translation is that I am alone but I try to be reasonable in my dreams.  These dreams are that there is happiness for anyone with peace.

There is a tension here also.  I do not know why I am good or strong or peaceful.  Perhaps I am not.


I have brought out these statements so that I can live without the race of my tastes (which are to be famous and kind).  There is no race to these tastes.  Perhaps there is no race anywhere.  Darkness is not race.  I cannot speak for anyone else.  It is irresponsible to write in this way about such an emotive subject in language that is not itself emotive, that does not draw upon all of humanity -- at least my own.  I do not know how to approach this other than in my life's own changes, perhaps in image and metaphor.  I am not a loud artist such as one with belief in life.

That has to change before I can write about this topic.

Thank you for knowing my theories of writing.  I must let go of worrying about this mess, and direct myself toward believing in hope.

Inside there is a moment that dreams of rest for words.

Open laughter:

Peace was the lover of its own veils.

I have breasted the issue of love; I am a woman of hopes and I need to let it be as a open life.

The words say I am where there is life.

Life says I am where there is art.

Art says I am where listening is taste.

Hope was a lie when I had towels.

Bright and dark
Dream and spark

Love was great
To be fate

I have loss
Illness toss.

Jekyll Hyde
Softness Glide

I go

Though there is little to know, I am weary of my own tests, change and fears.  I live to give this peace its own hope.  Pleasure with me is my taste for patience.

Marsha P. Johnson was a nice woman.

What the Dead King Wrought

Iron, Silver
Leather and Bronze

Rings and Pewter
Arrows and Sword

Passion for War
Revealed in Bones.

A robed one strode
Into the field

Calling with
Strident words,


Escape, Dear King;
This Painful Grave.

An Enemy
Is About.

The town prepares
To fight the land

The land gives up
Sorrow to sup.

Blood and anger
Poison the air.

Grief and Hatred
Change to Death's heir.

Your wand'ring day
Must end this morn

Ancient and new
Desire you here.

A skeleton
rising heavy

With an awful
Dreadful sneer

Dreams made sour
Rage brought near

Now stretches forth
From whitened soil

A murdering
Rod made of steel

The air rains foul
From old time weal

"The pow'r within
That you begin

Must climb the Tree
That all worlds be.

Evil and Pain
Driving your hate

I'll cleave in two
Without you abate.

I sought power
To rule this world

And learned to rue
All blood I shed

Was mine as well
I found when dead.

Lone pain is death
Announce with joy

That mark which you
bear:  before I fly.

"More for myself
I tried to bring

A narrow shelf
Is cast this spring."

The King now knew,
Her greed for rule

Brought a fever
And made slaughter.

Her mastery
Dying quickly

She stirred ashes
And cast wishes.

Off'ring herself
To the roast fishes.

Roaches

I can't read, because I don't know.

I'm not that good at worrying about women.

Naked without myself I am cruel.

Ignorance is making me fail.

I am ignorant of why I am a clam.

This is because I am running from my charges.

Running toward them, I am:

Open to loss.

My mother is my answer to the rain.

I have to let go of her as King.

Bruce Murray was an arrogant pig.

I am a lousy joke.

Ask yourself what is beauty?

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

Art is not safe.  Dreams are not beautiful.

If these statements are at least partly true, then, pushing their truth to ultimate limits as far as my understanding of "reality" goes,  I must be avoiding safety and beauty rather than embracing them.

I despise knowing freedom because there is no art in feeding openness (or is there?).

Analytical moments like this make me cruel to my mother in that they bring a sense of superiority.

That is repulsive.

Law and knowledge belong to a way of material existence that involves pain for those who are entrances to being.

These include all who bring people to self-understanding through receptiveness to their individuality.

I now feel I am bullshitting.

Subtext:  Guilt from being a woman instead of making life safe.  I know that it only works when there's "umpires."

That's a misconception and a self-serving lie.

I'm not that good at love.




Terrorism and inequality go hand in hand.


I borrowed a lot of money from people and now I have to pay it back by taking my life in my own hands, which I have to do anyway, and being a shack (raven -- justice -- life).

That goddess which believes in her own cruelty is the one that is rude.

I hate this openness.

Mammy.




Seriousness -- another way of making love the reason for hope.

How do you show the relatedness of all is in fact serious?  By making life its own home.

I am what I am.  I must read; I must read; I must live, meaning be good at listening.

I tell you that there is no anger in my openness, only dreams (of change, being that which strengthens peace).

Earlier today I hated peace.  Now I have come full circle again.  There is someone I delighted in, and that was my body. 

[I understand from reading this over that there is precious little of interest in it because there is no or little apparent unity, whether artistic or rational, that I provide.  I wish to bring this unity.  So, here it is:  Peace, art, understanding and rationality are all human ways of living out hope.  They are all related and interdependent.  I know for myself that part of life is to like the ones who care.  I belong with the ones who are imperialists in their troubles.  This is what is tragic to me.  And tragedy is a unity.]

I did not respect others' being.  That is where I am.  If I live I give you answers.

Answer:  history of math, the capitalist orgy of love.

Love under will equal transformation.

Charge with robes.

The upshot

many drugs create what is failure

I am what I am

Goddess died and that is my anger.

I do not understand the many.

This is my openness.

Anonymous brings back the Land

The hackers


I say that I can
Issue the
Peace.

She with her body
Shares
Peace.

I gave myself
No one
And a road to

Women.

War with the government
Is grief to
Art.

Levels are not life.

Mannequins crave
Reason.

I believe war is
Not good for
Hope.

This opinion derives from
Loose pain:
Life and beauty are

Staying here
As poem.

I remember the need to
Laugh.

I remember the hope of
Laughter.

I know the safety of
A moment
To not violate.

The prosecutors of
Aaron Swartz
Cried for poem.

I give them
mostly
freezing.

Anonymous likes

Flaws of my life
Are here.

Entropy was here
For its grief.

I always dreamed
that I was
Many.

To dismantle the government,
dismantle yourself.

Inside I have seen
Land.  (This is the first line)

Prepare to live
Without apparatus.

Land and roads to
Memory.  (This is the second)

Poems of Change
Are where

My need is for
Soaking in
Laughter.

Prevalence of
Effort is

Aggravation of
Thin craven lace.

I'm trying to hard
To make sex into God.

I am writing what is
A drain on my feelings.

These are:

Freak is dream of cleaving
to Moments.

I list this girlie naked
Goddess.

Man is dream of empire.

[Calling myself StupiddD!]

This world of waying the breeze is
Tossed.



I'm not art.

Change is open.

Close the jar.

Roaming the angels I feel messed over.

Saying what I am in order to get where I want to go,

Napping where there is life is the stake.

I cannot make you be roses.
I share banks.

Telll your lover, I am a cape of booms.

No one is needed where no one is messy.


Seeking power of writing
I write power.

Hacking my open dream is
Literature.

I was here for a moment.

I believe in Cunt to make a draft
Of Lace.

The Lace Curtain Irish, in other words.

I cannot write anymore without being a sinkhole for your dog.

Itch the Rich/Bitch/Snitch/Witch.

I don't want to change because life is not safe.

Peace to the players.