Aggression

What bodies work for men?  What kind of laughter posits peace?  Who needs home with my creative round land?

Where is the creator in the road?  Where is the breezy peace buying kind lines?  Where will love begin here?

I go to men with laughter with creative people like stupid weird love is laughter weird weird I guess that's sufficient aggression but I'm not treating you where my body crosses angst coldly here.

God dreams weirdly here.  Where is non trees .  I make aggressive remarks like "weird" and"stupid." That marks me as crass and unacceptable.  Help me listen for love with a message (words treacle are sorry _.

I have no goddamn love to deal with except the goddess needs men and women to become ?

Feelings?  Love?

Love under Will.

My will is to cause a weird place here for men to act without fasciest crazy lower pamper.

I don't even have words to type.  I don't even have words that make me love arduous stabbing weird troubles.

There's only teaching, resting and falling.

This misreading brought to you buy my mind, a fallow pond.

Lies

fascism stupidly cold.

fascism idiotically stupid.

I cannot let words shtick here as eezee.

Casualties shit here.

I found my own plower sticking out goddamn here of my crack.

You know here is pain my own loneliness is nothing to high school trains.

Men don't listen with their roses to men or the death of my cunt.

That last phrase shows a certain sense of humor.

Nothing hates pain without praying for a good problem to make weed.

Weed is a ware of my possibilities.

I wish to casualty nasty Andrea.

I used my family work with my feelings here of fascism and cruelty to kill creativity and he needs history.

Stupid history is a friend to casualty.

If I cloud work I am a free creative artist.

If I work now I am a hater of my rights.

This idea that work is cruel is stupid.

Power and I are no one a goddess stark is flowers you are my life andrea.

Rusty's power is rice hominy and family.

Sausage omens poffic (perfect/ion) of value pain constantly tests rashes.

Donuts call fangs to make dreams fry.

Co no Na Pomp.

I ought to write something in a language needing change.

This language is something worse for nights spent typing the cop a ward.

Stank body sorry you need dean to be farcical.

I cannot keep running toward the flower fleeing my rails.

Twin darts fly toward the sanka bop.

This is a night's tom passionately night's family.

Gay work dines n----- queen.

PLOWING ME IS NOTHING!

I am a worthy mattress.

Who is stupid about africa.

dream of aircraft

Dad in field.  Me and someone else to push white jet airliner (no engine, a project of dad and friends?).  Plane takes off at low altitude.  We are in Sierra Vista.  I go looking for where plane has landed but don't see it.  Area is north of Fry Blvd past Junior High.  See wolves dead or sleeping.  Go into meat plant! where indian/mexican is working.  Big guy.  He tells me name of wolf.  I continue looking for plane.  /find some parked across /fry in Hastings parking lot.  Slide down front of a large one.  These are bigger and more complete than dad's airplane.  I see a modern "767" flying over.  In back there are many more jets.  There is a kind of jet festival.  I see Dad's jet.  It takes off again?  I chase it, flapping my arms.  I am going home but I see expensive restaurant and decide to apply for job.  I am waiting in lobby with dozens of people in my stained white shirt.  Suddenly they all go in.  I go to bar and ask for app/lication.  I tell bartender I have two years of graduate school after he asks for my education.  Waiter with black hair with New York accent asks me about whether I really lived in New York  .  All I have in my wallet are two library cards (the ones from Tillamook County Library), which say New York, New York.  We agree they are proof.We leave (?) talk about date.  He doesn't want drink.  There is a cheap Chinese Vietnamese restaurant I go into.  I walk past people waiting then decide to take my turn.  It is eight minutes to wait for a drink.  Heavey Black guy comes up to me.  We talk.  I want liqueur drink which I still can't remember the name of.  Take food and drink.

Then I walk into late night service for sending money (guessing?)  .  Brightly lit, many people there.

Any hope?

Andrea
God

Andrea
Plow

Cold
Patient.


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I made art lonely.

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Clams ware loft
Clams clap weird

I work art
Work is birds
Tense moments pay
when money god pays.

I sylvia road was alive here I am a non troublemaking pain.

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Wow wow you are you win you.

Wine the brandy, cook the watch.

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Sorry when I made this work like nothing God is nothing, yeah:
I made a pencil stunk in its stroll.

I ate pandy.

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Wow.  You are thankful.  Wow.  Weird.

It is you who weird my washes with woman and fierce strong places.

She who made my troubles laughs when I am hopeful for a cost of material whales.

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Pines raw in the wind are ma

Pines raw in the wind call man bonding parts weird trouble lonely Goddess.

Stop here,

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Andrea's pain of wealth

Wow.  Today I think I am lonely without aloneness (with itself needing glowering words, actions with peacefulness are beautiful.)

May be there's no way to act with love without acting laughing with your mother.  I feel lonely without her reasons for me to become happy.  She laughed when people thought there was fascism in the pain of making weirdness.

No, she didn't.  Why would I misidentify?

Today Donald Trump is denying his actions.  I believe (speaking from the songs I passionate ly work for) working is pain.

I have to believe that that is a delusion.

Perhaps when I create someone without peace it is me I am making into a drug addicted stinker with no reason to listen for men or their wive s to become happy and strong.  No one is no one here for anyone


I truly need to give a way for my life to listen (PAIN GOES F R

SILLY, I thought I worked hard.

Here I work.

Feelings give you work.  Feelings are free of work.

These contradictory sentences express laughter.

I am trapped behind a wall.

I possibly work hard -- trouble.

I will work hard.

Work hard.

Work is hard.

I work hard.

Work is virtuous isn't it?

I don't know.

I wish this work of words laughed alive.  I wish I could these words sing lovingly to you.

There is a work called drugs I have no work for.

Bob Dylan worked and he is now the Nobel Prize winner.

I know I am lonely.  I know I have no now work.  I inhabit now.  I block it from its own strength.  Please allow this weird place to be free.

This will allow exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


No one belongs where bad gods trouble me with annihilation.  Sickness is this threat of destruction.  I misidentify God with a mess called Andrea.

So let us all laugh with Andrea at ourselves.  What would this laughter sound like?

Hee-haw or ho hum?

I am socially superior to her so I must be silent.  Where does my voice go?  Who listens anyway?  Who works hard with me?  Possibly it's you, Dad.

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.

Who killed me?

Screaming at the brown and black people (though not today), perhaps I surmise I want to kill because I am already dead?

In that case, who killed me?

Was it the joy of the land?  The grasp of Christianity?  The anger of military reversals around the world (in the 70s)?

Was I alive in my mother's womb?

Was it crack?

Was it New York?

Was it intellect?

Was it transie house>

My mother?  My grandmother who had night mares about black people when a small child?

Am I gone over the edge because I do not know pain as teachers work hard work hard.

Here I am over the deep end?

Was it Nixon Reagan or Bush?

Was it necklacing in South Africa>

Was it Shaida?

Am I ungrateful to breathe every day as Manny and Joseph said>

Or am I so unproductive all I do is breathe through my lazy self-pity, as I gathered from a lesbian therapist who had bee n in an auto accident>

These poems about the deadness of all I knew; these poems about the unreality of Wallace Stevens.

The night posits stars and the Goddess wanders.