Who's Joe King?

I'm just sitting here knowing that I am doing nothing but relying on others to provide for me.

That's why I sought this way of baking the tribes (as in firing pottery to harden it and make it strong -- the tribes being those who needed a lot of chances).

I knew that when I think that somehow I become no one.

This is the voice of no one.

I can have a rhyme.
There is never grime.

Otters malign my gravity.

You know that when you can make grief into something grave that sorrel makes a woman need ostriches.

That dwindling power to reason my way through interesting illnesses is becoming a crime.

Memory was here.

I now want to buy flasks with casks.

Elysian Moment:

As niceness makes wisdom ride, so niceness makes my laughter change frames to reasons.

Lester

Leased wars to be a cap.

Why is womanliness cruel for that rambling that is pretty?

Because the rambling would prefer to be succinct.  I remember working as a way to be home. 

That was my way of freedom.

Lenses dreamed that illness had one rent.

I now remember where I faded:  there was my own life; there was another way of being called being a crest running toward men; there was a never place called reason.

I can deal with this:  I was championed to be mentored and then made famous to be flowers.

Sylvia was one person with one happy ground:  the way that She created a life (mine) that has nasty rambling gold (me, this).

How lame when my own drowning is joking.

Ever matching markers and marsha -- one who I am not.

I devoured Sylvia's knowledge.  She knew I paid failure to be a lantern.

This hatred for my life was there to make my grievances heard.

I remember you (Susan) liking my laughter of narcissism.

Ha.
Ha?
Maw.