This morning

Materialism causes a round dot.

This dot has a passion for my cloud.

On my cloud there is a poem.

I write my poem for my laughter:

Death god man room beauty.

Fantasy rights art safety love
Land woman reason hope.

Family grieves dreams  -- task -- I die when I am ashes.

In all the goddess there is:

Crooked art
might
is my orgy.

[I don't bar-long to a popper.]

Denial breakdown art gruel.

Capital anger reason nut.

I want my family to be sore  
   so I will need art, a loud and passionate empire.


******************************************

Peace and beauty unto the loss of openness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rape is a fantasy of my onanism.

--I am alone and I am mostly a rook for that nasty murderer, Sartre--

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Gas is a loud and awful man.

Witchfart is now. 

)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))


I day bar good.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How is this a men?
How is this a reason?
How is this a family?

I give you dreams of actresses
Who deal ants (such as myself) fascination.

This was a brutal and crooked family.

I now am hopeful.

=================================================


Do You give my friends will?

I do.

Then give yourself a thank you.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Cruel truthful trusting

Sweet.

After all the pain, I am laughing for the passion to laugh.

p/ass/ion
pass/ion
p/ass/I/on
pa/ss/ion

Apa mama rapa arga loa maca artist of ro/tary ga
Empire (I): a family that needs teasing.

Sappy and thankful.
Peace is a war that doesn't think about itself as a nut.

And I want a moth for her passion.
Death is not change for me alone.

There is a world that I love that is golden and thankful.
It is a good world.

Ranches and dawn and rank and dreams of moments that give whore
   freak.

Moss.

Shit.

Perhaps this won't show up in my stats without text.  You like?

New Screen Name

I shafted this baloney with a big nut.

I said:  You, you with the dream, what do you want with this openness?

You said,  Be peaceful.

I got the baloney.

Acting empire ically

Ach.
I
Och.
Oc
Oui

Si
Si

Yes

You
Tu
Vous
Thou

Fact:  270,000 Indian farmers have committed suicide from despair in their destitution.

Listen to WIOXradio.org.

I love my body.  I love my passion.  I love my mind.

Test:  What does this make my thoughts?

A:  Rapid.  Creative.  Hopeful.

This is my strength -- that I may be a part of my own answer.

There is no guarantee that I will continue being able to read and write for much longer.  I do not know what will take its place.

Mammon is cold and cruel.

Since there is little that belongs with lakes -- I fear my own loudness.

Here it is:  loud man ashes death randy my life god  next reasons for my life I can deal strength as a loud reason for my goddess, who is reationality.  Okay.  I have to be Family.

PAIN DOESN'T BELIEVE IN RIGHTS.

Video 1

What the hell am I trying to say here.????

Clearly There is way too much dreaming going on.

That is the only queer treatment that I subscribe to without reservation:  Being A Camera,.

Yet another step into psychosis?

Probablhy I should just let cameras be cameras and whatever the product is will be

Loving.

www.wioxradio.org

This

That which understands God is

Laughable

In that It must let go of answers.



Not Chill

This bad thing called anger is/poems/separate lines reveal/ing disjunctures in thought which proceed from fissures in loyalty, understanding/art is a man/Death drives pain to its foolish apartness.  Sexualityh decrees its own money.  And now I tell myself for myself with your troubled response:  There is a poem which I cannot deal with that I have found in my openness.  It is a road to man.  He is nothing but everything to his own creativity.

I must escape pain.

There is a pain which is around itself, which derives its life from anger and  from fear.  I describe it and nobody answers with any:  loud poetic  reasonable  mo/och Dead is cruel.

I am mad because I paid to listen for rights and for beauty and I hear  death and anger.

Why?

10 minutes

Free writing usually puts me into a place where  I say things which are very pointed cruel angry etc. and  oftren winds up with me misspelling things and  wondering at times whaqqt to sayl.  I really don't know where this is headed, except for the facte ahtat I must have something to say in order to write it down.

There are plenty of decisions I must make.  I hae almost gone to New York several timnes recently, actually purchasing a train ticket once.  I am fascineated by the idea of train travel, which is very exciting to me,.

Any way there is so much else to focus on.  For instance, why is it that nothing is fair when no one offers but now ther ies the fact that I cannot  say crack is my friend.

Oh, well, back to that.

I must intrer fere with myself.

You ought to see the spelling in Middle English.  They spoke the syllables then, and wrote them out as spoken often enough that there is a wide variation in the spellings fromn different regions of Englsand and Scotland.

I really ought to study Latin.  I have orered Julias Caesar's works and Tacitus, also, in parallel English and Latin.  How far ought I go with that.

And then, there is the fact that I am about to start reading Antigone.  I remember Julia Roberts played her and Chelsea (That's Jamie Roberts) played Tiereisias.  What a pity I think for myself that I missed that.

Freudian slips, etc.  I wish that I knew whether Freud studied Greek and Latin, and what his relations were with the ancient thinkers and writers.  I would sdo something along those lines but my horoscope says not tuo turn my back on Mother Earth, which I will not.  She is more important than Freude or Oedipus Rex.

Mayhap there is some pemployment in science these days.  Do you think they allow confessed rape thoughtists to get any kind of job?

So what. 

I am the person I need to be.  Perhaps I have been subtly throough the back door so to speak working against that  saying  about people,.,  That at any given moment...

I think that I am who I need to be.  Right now.

I still think about Jamie and Chelsea and Rusty and  Randy and Marilyn and Nathan, etcl....  My life will never go back to what it was.  And there is something to the thought that without their intelligence and acuity and spirit that I will never again learn about myself in the same way.

Today is a good day.

Moronic and  beautiful simultaneously.  The day not me.

Good,.  Still going.  One more minute. ???

Take care, I will be gone soon from this page.

You must be careful for yourself and all those around you.

Man is a curious creature, to me.  Perhaps there is more to hate and love than man, woman and child.

Like a rose, I am alive

Shuffle the shunned commoner
His path is left of reason

I test you listening:



For me poetry is the anxiety of knowledge:  where the word will lead?

I am part of a crock of pain  anger selfishness

Delete Delete Delete.

I post-op.

Call me another way of being a rope.

I disentable the costs of my love.

Same here.

Gold is a rope.

I tie myself with a family a father and his roses were no body's desnity.

Kastle Kapektalkjalfkjiajalfja

Rope.

Great spangled free writing will take you anywhere but witout a friend of my life I am a rook.

Keep love reasonable and I will know your roman laughter.

AS A ROOK I AM A LOUD LOUD

Does pretension seep into every word that emerges from my type.

ingllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

I seek only to give you a loud god with no fear of part IN.

This knowledge  of God's origin:  Where was Jehovah when the Israelites began?

Was I there?  Did you know what I wanted?  Why seek always after the calling of a drunk?




There is no synthesis of Law and Moment.

Cash and Old Reson.

Gift is not laughter and I am bowling with a believer of money


Cash is a foul drunk.

I catch myself knowing what I know.  Sylvia Rivera called me famous.

I called her a poem.

Ad laugter

Call me a famous rogue.

Doesn't treat like I do.

My voice goes staccato on me, with ferocious emphasis of each individual sound as I make you give me a fail.

Anastasia.  The Czar.  Stalin.

Mama is a loud famous reason to work.


Lemondade.

Jasmine Carpenter/Borelli were a patient and soft reason for a pod.

Notion:   uneditable work will never substitute for editable writing.

Or edible panties.

Har harhar

Snark.

Don't Publish This.  Please.  You don't have to show everybody what they already know.  The tedious workings of the estranged mind.  Hahahaha.

Hey, Rusty, did you know that I am baloney?

Hahahaha.