Tiresome

Each and every day that I can write is a day of life that I love.

There are trees in me.
As know one.

Retirement:

There was hope.

I chose to keep smoking though in April a voice came to me pleading in the name of my friends to stop.

I smoked because I was baloney.

Out of here, I remember that no one created this pain.

There was estrogen.  There was people.
I know that when one hope makes me turn to the ones who knew me, I ask peace.

A la a feeling (her crazed black whore).

So now I am the trumpet of terror.

Projection on Marsha.

I knew that she was one life.  I was envious of her dream of Love.

This knowledge was messy.

Call me actress.

When I knew my mother's dream that I give people beauty, I was mostly torn as the family that I rested in.  She was here to have life.  I have been her audience.  I have been that which knows money.  I have also given the knowledge of femininity to men.

They got that frame.

When will I stop being cryptic?

I dealt my feeling (justice is me) to others out of fear of embers (the source of human culture: fire).

I fear one:  bunk.

That you know is piss (Why is there rhyme?)

A lot of people have loved me for that oboe -- a twin-reeded instrument.

Fat Goddess was my rut.

Sylvia dreamed for her people the need of being alive.

Tomorrow?

Stanfordian Te Deum

Dear Trees,

I can no longer afford to write Notes toward a Prolegomena of Greek Religion.

I will not write Origin of Species.

I have thought about the Goddess.  I have been here for a long time.

She does not pay me to love her. 



The blood clots in my lungs, the deficit of hormones in my blood are --
unanswerable.



This work of worldly peace is only toward that divinity that rests in this dreaming trace of memory.

Mnemosyne?

I flatter myself that when you give yourself someone with whom you are ready to be on intimate terms that I will still be hopeful.



This way of trying to give without knowledge is a way that I have found to write that does not involve strength or failure.

So I will now commit myself to a strong failure.

Crap is the failure of reason.

I dream to live; you have made me give you womanliness that was famous for being a grace.


Wishing for another world, I admit that I do not try to give others peace.  This is because there is a Goddess with peace.  I want to know that which I was.

She was her own loss.

When I have your beliefs, I will know what I know.

I believe that this runt was testing my freedom for my guesses.

I guessed that I made love a bird.

I wish that I was here for some time.  I need to keep writing what is here to write.

Sylvia Rivera was mother to marks.

[this draft will be rough for a while.  you may read it or not as i continue to revise it.  now this is what i have made peaceful:  a family of lies.]

Know thyself

Slavery is a topic that I have obsessed with for years without being able to arrive at a firm understanding of my own feelings about it.

It is cruel to take property in another human being, but cruelties abound. 

Slavery is like a continual rape of the sense of one's own humanity.

From what I know.

I was trying to say that no one is good enough to be the only truth.

Or bad enough.

I resent making love as if I were my own tribe.

Never make justice the dream that is mean.

Give people love because you want to.

Listening without making strengths for others is not okay.

I answered this life with trees.

Okay -- if you who give your attention to what I write want to know what it is to make rain, you must make your life crazy (try to make yourself motherly).

She who knew what I wanted was ready to give me every try.  I felt that was shit. (!!!)  I thought I was the only one with love.  I thought no one made laughter without my own lines.  These were:  Money, God and cruelty.

Literature is peaceful when you give it peace.

Today I will make someone strong.

I believe She is a lancer.  I have thought this was strength.  It is raven as rose.

I ask Her, may I live?

She will know hope.

I know this means that I am loving.  Eggs with life begin with feelings.  I was a nest.  I am a homosexual creek.  This means I was working to be a narc so I would be reasonable.

You are what you are.  Maybe I can tell you that it is good for me to love without cruelty.

How will I be free?  By knowing braces.  That is, flames.

Now there can be love in my dream of yes.

Arthur's Peace

On a day in a season of mildness in the air, fruit in the trees and leaf-given shade in the land of Britain, when the language of the Druids whispered in the ears of the great and of the stalwart tillers of earth's bounty, when the songs of passion and of joy outweighed dry accountings and sharp commands, the greatest progeny of the realm left his grand home to pursue the dream which had wakened him that morning from an enchanting, that is, fairy-made slumber.  He had no armor but instead a thin white cotton robe; sandals on his feet; his hair loose and long; his beard without wax.  In Arthur's eyes -- Arthur the King -- there was a look new to himself and his court.  He seemed to look at every field and every grove as if he had never seen them before but had always known them, and was pleased in his demeanor.  Birds that flew near lit upon the boughs of trees and silently bore witness to his slow, deliberate step and his light presence, as if he were their brother in flight.  Indeed, he seemed he wished to take wing with them.

But the dream he had, nearly unfaded, in his thoughts, was quite different and even more impassioned.  With his purpose firm, he found Sire Galahad with his sword and, whispering, spoke to him thus:  "Galahad, you are the finest, strongest knight of the Round Table.  I have had a dream in which I saw that all that there is is the living will of the Mother of our land.  Day by day we live in the shadows of this knowledge that we are her children.  I see now that I must become her servant before all else."  Galahad, alarmed by Arthur's unworldly presence, replied, "Great Sire, return with me now to the great house to your wife the Lady Guenever.  She will be able to render you the service you require to maintain the proper relationship to your land and people and to your Father and God. 

"I say to you no," Arthur with the greatest serenity replied.  "I require your sword to complete my devotion to Our Mother.  It is sacred and ancient and has the bite and sting of the most powerful serpent."

Galahad replied more loudly, "Sire Arthur, there is no one in this land or any other who can know the ways of the protector and progenitor of this earth we inhabit with all gratitude and delight.  Neither Merlin nor Morgana can compel or induce anyone, whether with power or with supplication, to become what was not brought to them at birth."  Galahad had correctly supposed the nature of Arthur's dream.  "I beseech your Majesty's forbearance of my impudent counsel.  It were better to return to your wife and your mother than to carry out a foolish desecration of your person."

"Naked I was born and even more naked shall I depart," stated Arthur, the bear spirit antecedent to his name rising in him.  "I will have your sword."

Then Arthur, his vision undiluted by Galahad's importunings stepped toward a very beautiful oak which villagers referred to as the Tree of Knowledge.  The sword in his hand, he knelt at the roots of the great tree and said rapidly and quietly in English many words of hope, desire and promised to the Oak's mother that his loyalty would remain hers.  Then with one swift stroke he emasculated his body, his eyes opening in shock at the pain and the knowledge of himself in Her eyes.  Then, collapsing, he turned to Galahad who was running toward him, and, blood pouring out his mouth and from his groin, called out for succor in last moments.  Galahad cradled the dying Arthur in his gentle arms and shed many tears over his demise, the man who ever afterward would inhabit the dreams of his subjects and their descendants to this day, as the One Who Sought To See Through Britannia's Eyes, or, Arthur the Seer.

Gently Britain bade farewell to the time of Life without Sorrow.

As Arthur was buried in Avalon, so his last moments are preserved in the memory of the soil and are given to all who seek to pay gracious homage to the Fair Lady.

The World South

To live on the page -- A lot of love

Tepid tapes fast:  No food will let life pass.

I remember loving to teach moments.

These moments each carry love,
Each time I write, I think it's better than nothing.

I have paid reading so that many will make openness strength.

I know that stopping where there is a mother gives me wisdom.

I also remember that a lot of goodness does not know life.  (yet)

Many can give change.

When I called for a lot of life, I was a lot of lack.

Apples teach tapes to make laughter, when witches are making sleep.

I cannot temporarily clap my laughter as life.

This only dreams when drugs trap poems as injury.

That is terrible.

Look when you make a friend:  are you alive with happiness?

I didn't make life temporary nor did I wish to.

Neruda gives people a little strength.
Dickinson finds art in peace.  (She likes the craft of dreams.) 

Elevated Glamour does not make life open.

Elevated Glamour equals my old style.


Now you may return your television to the original broadcast.

The letters come first

Letters drop themselves singly onto the page,
Surrounded by influences they bear,
Each making an entourage with the others.

None has a definite precursor, lineage or destiny.
And, as with the collisions in a particle accelerator,
Are infinitely and minutely observed in the making of themselves.

The force of each arrival contains itself in
Indistinct possibility, painful choices, and
The elements' frequent stony refusal to adhere to coexistence.

I, like a parent, contribute only hopeful expectations,
Confounded guidance and perturbed acceptance
Of a mixture ready to disperse itself in an obscure, reincarnating quiet.

Glam post-op

Change that
Waker

Dreary
Cloud

I rise ten

Lateral
Minute



Poem that rests with its den in its east.

You did the thing that I thought was nice.
You did the one last rug.

I remember the night that I taught your
poem in the dream.

I remember the time that I thought yes
was yes to famous grind.




You are lace and light.



Balamangooddarknesssomeoneartistneeddream of womanto give someone artist to be what someone got to live at love.




Will you need a ick?