Frustration

I am backed up, pickled inside myself.

Over and over again I try to formulate a great whore (sorry, I mean a great stance/approach/in tension/freedom/lifeplan) and it is me I understand that I cannot make into africa.  I am not the unknown "dark" continent.  I am not the land of change and hope.  I am not america, europe, asia, australia or antarctica.  Why I don't have a strong sense of what to do at each moment disturbs me.  I don't even care about my africans.  My africans are land and darkness; trees and women; freedom and  love.  I approach each word as a wonder to emerge from my verbal ability and become on the page an exact similitude to the state of existence I face.

No word or art can be a direct copy of reality.

This act of mine becomes a lowly room of lonely struggle.  I have no patience for my reasons, my mommy loved me (this is a certainty and a cry to be loved and deservedly)  please echo stop  it.

I am sore at the laughter made by shaman darkness.  It haunts me; and chases me with thought scattered and bent before it.

Nothing causes body.  It simply is.

I have not paralleled my laughter with peace.  I have not given kindness with my medicine.  No spoonful of sugar.

Please I need to continue saying here what I believe.

I believe that only my god is the freedom to become strong.  (An error, a lie, a delusion)  Dear Goddess please include laughter in the rant/poop/weird/cause.  I do not care there is god only a god to believe in who does care about dad and my grief for my past.

I am in my past; I am in a lonely rude cruel angry lonely wordless tree.

Dear Goddess, this weird place is not that peaceful.  I am the place of which I write.  Dear Goddess, this lament, this outcry places pain inside the care I have.  I know my brother needed a good weird plot to create.  He cannot, nonetheless, create me as that or anything else.

I seize upon the troubles.  The troubles seize upon me.

Dear reasons,  where is the priest?  where is the dream?

I saw this weird (me) as God.  I saw this pain as laughter (because you and I became one).

We are apart.  This Atlantis I saw, Chelsea, was not our personal becoming one but an intermingling of laughter hope and kindness.

I saw a future, I saw the loss of spirit, the beginning of rivalry, the work that I must do (here I must describe it) is that laughter that becomes peace.  The ride of my life was a band.  I was a marching band trombonist, a dance band trombonist and a concert band trombonist.  With the cruelty of attachment and application to a task set before me (but by whom and for what purpose?) I become angry.  This one place is a dark andrea lawed by poems and illness.  This illness is hate.  This illness is anger.  This illness became a bomb in my cruelty toward God.

Dear Goddess, may the lilies, the green bananas, the chimpanzees, Jane Goodall, Andrea, laughter , love and will listen for this Goddess (a dried pain weird as nut).

So the claim of immortality died when I closed my work into line.