One bizarre street

I entertain little green people in my head. I truly hope you believe that.

I also acknowledge that whenever I write that I am at some sort of impasse that delays, disorders, even destroys what I have to say.

What is that impasse?

"I want suck"

Derive that.

That's not the impasse but a symptom of it a version of which I verbalized to my mother tonight. I immediately said I wanted to go to bed, and attributed it to too much time spent here with her.

I find that good things start with being strong. I am about as strong as the knees of a little green person from Mars who is a long distance runner who consistently lands on the wrong part of his foot.

Barren, angry, fruitless.

Impasse.

I cannot impregnate or be impregnated. I don't know whether this is the problem.

Another impasse.

See love. Impasse
Derive freedom. Impasse.

Correction: coldness leads to pain.

Impasse in every direction.

A friend to me is the diversity of knowledge. A friend to me is the hope that all is fear. Triple impasse.

Fear makes me know nothing. I am a cruel strong but impassable poem.

Which is to say an anti-poem.

Now I know from my reading that there have been "anti-poets" for decades. I have to work around the impasse.

Sex for me is dark. It is free but not supportable. There is no good in love that goes to money.

I go to money as a way to flow. I go to money as a way to serenely escape pain.

I go to love as a way to free myself from safety.

Pain is money.

Peers are cruel.

I impassively interest myself in nothing except drugs because there is no knowledge that I have which anyone likes.

Deep, and free, and painful.

Spinning anger, frustration, peace along a cylindrical dreary drum.

Excoriation. Pain. Pain.

I cannot make anykind of thought with this anti-thought drug dominating my mind.

Feel what you feel.

A hostile truth is money. Costs too much to live. Me Goddess of womanly darkness.

I only want to say that you are home as you make it.

The pain of a brain which is forced into a kind of coagulation, a lump, a non differentiated dysfunctional death of its own joyful dance is monumental to itself.

I like freedom. I can't go on without knowing what these antipsychotic drugs are, but I can't know because they deprive you of self knowledge in any way but a clumsy summing up. The dance of spontaneity is gone.

Little by little I am dying from coldness.

I know that I share with you all this so that you will not dream tonight of me.

Please don't remember this pain.

Mother goes to drugs.