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A line is formed
the mind deforms
Is it forever to be free.
Twisting out and away
from what thought can be.
by adam jacob

I am a man. Short of form and making, walking ourselves selves, no mood or description can be made.
I am aware like the paranoia who would lead, and concern has left; drastic reactions are infinite, and small

There is our nature’s known. There is our thought, understanding and transcendence. It is yet another road of denial or measureless mercy.
For one can run, But “where you go, there you are”.

The only focus I can make is to act.


eyePicture 341
and aye;
a them, us
and we.

I wonder over character. What a multi-placed thing. Instead of curing the limit less of doubt, as a writer, I search it out. A person, who would talk of themselves, reveals only a million ghosts created, and yet no idea is new.
But yet individual man, with thoughts infinite, can create an over usage. the poet hanging in the wind.
this use.
body and soul contained between two worlds, this heart and infinite crying against the seas of seeing. While all the puns come like irony of the one : (“for where do we base our humor?”)
What truth? the searching of feeling is all I muster. Years trying, where they are, almost just to displace them. .people write books for all kinds of reasons. I am yet just another.
Am I boring you with these rejections of self.
Pride and folly, heart and love;
where logic and reason should be.
Replacing them kills. and yet is civil survival a dead morality?
Heaven is the feeling, Budda the body, and all are infinite “points of light”.

without me, I, us and them:
evolution is the individual’s exposure.

The ego prevails in the instinct to be individual, the tales of being in love, usually comes first. the layered “where” of romantic love; the “falling”. Making spinning pits of endless vision and trauma. love as a question, constantly for when have we been able to concentrate long enough.

and sometimes I walk the streets endlessly , just seeing it , talking to myself. I am killing myself with sight.
I get lost into the dividing symbols, body language and tone. Barbarian and cruel at times, even seen socially, kind and gentle only through hiding. I want to matter and assume the same degrees of infinity to effect the whole never staying on a point going with the flow.
Writing is just one of the passions , if I am to keep passion.
Writing about self as is excistenialism. the plot goes with the music.
She is lovely, the make of the dark hair and eyes I have dreamed of . my teacher and master, and I hate her. While words are sand the heart hears tapping out a beat in a time piece.
I have cried to much over my loves.
I never dreamed about a girl and met her.
Insanity is my question? Every man has a reason for writing a book. This is mine.
Hating reason accordingly, I proceed.

The native will rise smiling
by K.A.Ambrose

A next wave. emotions.
the new smiling eyes aged
holding up the sky.

The field and the bees work together. Calmly exposing flora to its sex and the field to emptiness. What walks the new day to know how to go on to emptiness, surrounded by the sun. A mix of green and dry grass browns. dense masses of spindly strings. Symbols collide; leaving a mind to insist relevance, as is the little will of the empty field.
This is not a story about a field. It is not a story at all actually. It is a rambling over what was once a fine love; given by nature (destroyed by man.)
The field , now empty, is the grounds for a construction…Sections bordered off by wooden posts and string, Planning taking turns to go elsewhere with the calm field and no one will care .. the empty field has no merit or challenge . except that it is a will. the Moles look for worms and the birds fly into its crew cut boundaries. … It is day alive to all ways as home and is humanly defined Homeless.
I am talking of this land of abstracts where something is only a distraction from the obvious, a lived denial, to be humanity over god. Just for each second it happens, until there are no more seconds. the beat repealed and left that way. the ego so enlarged that it invents love.
The bees don’t care. They just react like one does to an abusive element. going on without knowledge that every third step is a nervous twitch…
the earth, turning around the field, faces to point at the sun and then away to darkness and the stars returned salute.

And the next day,
Here in the present . here in side some time lined definition, a shelter the Grove street Inn is a place for the Homeless. Here where I have fallen or risen to , planning nothing , accepting what I have planned? and nothing is it. the celebration is coming the slow passion holding earth to hand , is coming, or I am easing my confidence with hope.
I care not what matters in heart to be alive.
I want only to sleep and forget what I have created to look mercy in the eye. Change becomes invented ways of seeing . everything in obstacle to me. here waiting with frozen desires, where would only be passion and action, laid with trauma, admitted , and laid with life exposed to the squirrels waking ; to the need.
Hear hunger, feed.
Many to the past, escalating without hesitation, the absence of life through the civil attitudes. These paltry facts of materialism confining a world without proper recourse for the future. My children born in the hands of this power; and I.
When the power is based on a denial of others to power, is wrong.
The creation of the constitution talked of liberty, and the mental consideration of the future leaving only guilt on the present.
and then the day goes on. I love what I can feel but the day only tells me to be alive more to myself, there where it is known how to be… naturally; the likes and dislikes.
There is where , I have often been worried I can not see.

and then it is just a day, where we can see how our lives affect others and where our tendencies to love go beyond what naturally we feel. yes I love you but where is that divided into the facts of life. the existence I have not been able yet to see , the learning I have yet to do. nothing is of me and all is.

I am testing the limits of this machine my computer. Wondering when technology will quit on me, discarding eloborate spirituality
as so many before, where only reason and meaning are followed by dollar signs and yet what is more, the elimination’s are nothing ; a million unheard dances with memory, a million simple mistakes across a land unendingly beautiful without one

Day the last of the weekend. I am standing on the grounds, gain and lose, regarding the merit of endurance.
Plotting flowing voices. Marking my endurance with the tides of a sure bet, and nothing is sure.
I have found a new way to see, for all ways are new to the individual to feel, the marks are of intuition’s feelings.
but I have again fallen to my weakened knees over love. blue gray eyes and a story like a fallen choice. I know now the future is more based on my thoughts and feelings than ever in this thing I have marked, planned or let innocence flow through. I should maybe choose my words more carefully. for I do love her. the emphasis comes every now and then when I see her, I am in love and know it.
Somehow there must be room for life and love and here it is my thoughts to find that balance to insure the rest of time. my dreams no longer seems like dreams waiting for the day to be alive. but now again I realize to have love at all I must have self satisfaction. and there by the event to take place must insure the survival of my art,

twenty three west.
by Martin Do

1) To Tell the legend
4) waiting heart,
2) admit the encrypted message
5) is not heard.
3) Pretend your not hearing.

A dark and rainy night suffocates the air. pacing thoughts; murky ,and yet, very brave.
Reflecting off dirty blurring glass, a woman’s eyes show watery smeared; sore and red. Straight brown hair sticks to her forehead and cheeks. Deep brown endless eyes reflect back reflection and are lost to the dark outside.
She looks out the window and cries, heavy life long sobs which can not be quieted as she stretches into a purification of tears. the walls resound the echoes of millions. Silently exhausting the one who cries like sometimes seems all should.
But she is “sick” for years have been like this. Looking at herself through a darkened mirror , wandering though her life. Turning against the pain to cry.
Rain falls in answer when she knows it is not. A man, a love inside her, she can not shake, wants not to see her, as she dies to call. Knowing she is only replacing sorrow with a name but yet all is the aching to belong, to give, to make life. Conscious of the trying; trying to understand.
Joshua Roase, five nothing with a dolls face and sky stealing grey blue eyes, stares at her heart; the glass night’s reflection. Hearing devotion only as eloquent speeches made lonely against hope as a hand holds air. The rain comes down harder like an exclamatory sentence; God’s studious sound track.
Her life has been tortured and bound by what is old and what is lived. The blanket dries sight, secreting problems to the window, she laughs at her own useless tears. Wanting not to lose emotions even while having them. Tearing survival’s fabric even while being survival on the edge of humanity.
She waits on understanding and lets romance replace addictions of heart and to the like, each second a splatter of images, calculating how often her thoughts traveled directly insane to moments; Like the answers from the wind and rain. Divergent to wills interests lies only to cure it self. ..Emotional paths pass. Characters divided , light and dark, a centered eye and solid fate.. Here and now; moments. Action mark intellectual tomorrows of emotions; where between she waits in technologic fates; choas and self programming.
The window, peeled and painted over and over rip lines cracks and old bubbles. a lighter blue than evening sky shields the waters edge holds the pains dark mirrors. Rain again slays the window to a blur and second isn’t weighable .
The rest of the room burns in a low light, creating calm warmth with deep shadows, innocent and yet forecasting what scares flowers. Simple recesses unseen for a creeping apprehension foretold. but every moment awaking through chaos is freedom.

Her face naturally changes when she first meets people, when she see the equality of distance, when a texture, an energy, a smile is returned or even sometimes proceeded. Her life has been intuitive survival. An out cast from home and kindness, logic moves emotions into art . Self expression surviving through poverty’s purity; a natural seeking and finding. Where materialism fails, diving into the self never fails, but maybe ends….When you stop smiling, or when your smile is turned against you for the possession it offers, tempting and controlling is love’s ruin.

Looking straight through the window. Her rain doesn’t stop. Wind and flailing trees mourn even when there is no one to mourn. But all are the mothers and fathers of the infinite.
Inside our heads is the love , she knows, for the passion to care hasn’t left , but sees how it could , and fights to keep what would be alive without. for that is the victim’s feelings… her crying does nothing and she knows it. feeling almost foolish about her tears. Laboriously proving gravity, as they move down her cheek, catching in the crack of her lips Reminding yet of the sea’s limitless and adventure a soul feels growing with the floating salty tides. .
Insanity marks this personal exchange. a known insanity a viewed process for the individual. Inexperienced experience. Unmentioned history, facts avoided, and regained only with will. Meditating to find the pain willingly, its jewels ,a soft interest, to be happy.
Flat pink, the walls are painted
the room. with another bed. the room , paid for by donors is a retreat for the next months and some previous. Her homeless shelter, a house paid for by the generous offering of those who’ve gone without to have again. Who have run the boundaries of materialism for the love of heart, like her. The Saints of tomorrow are the pained of today.
Under a large hill, under the abandoned brick walled lordly castle . broken window panes, green and jagged red brown bricks covered in thick vines so old they have turned light brown. An Old State Hospital with weed trees, ten feet tall looking like a small thickly divided Palm infestation rises up over the house joushua’s little room lives in. A mental institution ,it was, famed for shock treatment rooms and large halls which imprisoned those who haven’t made the grade .who couldn’t learn to cry or cried to much which was mostly the case. Before changing consciousness was a demand and the inhabitants went to the streets or jails.
From the hospital, the white clapboard shelter looks homey. Yet inside it’s walls are the left-overs of civility and sanity as the uncurables. But these kind know it.. Wearing life stories on their arms. telling how bad off it is. getting food and shelter out of a New England attitude.
This one a credit card thief who just got out of the can. he don’t fit right because he is sane , right , yea, with a drinking habit like a paramecium to water. another one, on the coach, has been here four month waiting on welfare while consuming as much Heroin as possible. he buys piss and tries to sell anything he can to everyone. Another who walks feminely, short-ish with stringy grease black hair, rocks back and forth on the other couch no one knows what happened to her. she never talks normal, stares off in to space mumbling hatrful conversation. she doesn’t take care of herself at all lives in the same clothing for weeks and leaves the shelter to walk the streets and find anohter shelter.
But there are more in this house of hope. the staff comes in talking of their lives; the smiles, ( happiness) from one. someone other sadness or preoccupation. Another is cynical with a smile. and the other , the late night guy, he isn’t here , he’s always looking away into a bible, seen to much, and always ketches the drunks.
There are two other women like the eight other guys, just fell between the cracks, and have to get up into civilization alone, family given away to transient employment or misunderstandings or death.. Insanity is easy to believe when living the adventure of change and growth.
Joshua has been burdened without cause, except birth . she is apart of her self. pulling away the life she has come to , after, the next… for pretend , she has ran with criminals, to a get away car and ran off without the chase, blue lights flashing against her sweaty skin…. telling time as the edge, and sweaty and nervous, crawled into an abandoned box, holding her legs… remembering ..
her father came into the room quietly ,,,
time passes without trying…
a fist full of hamsters ….. the cops came into the alley but not even near the box then left and the night is at a bar ,, smiling but never saying a word…like so many facts Silence holding a knife to her throat. Quieted away like all the adventures she has had with men since fifteen. Old men, Dinners and parties, fancy dresses and attention every where. taking her heart out of her. leaving her to enjoy only the adventure and never emotions. Emotions came as an insult to her life and she runs from them until now. Here in this small room she feels free to experience herself.
She opens the window to let the water splashes, lash off the earth around her; Quick shocking pin needles to her face.
She dresses and goes to the front porch with easy chairs and cigarette coffee cans. where she becomes like the rest but holds her inner pieces tightly because of the silence. they haven’t been invited around the world by entering a bar. they don’t know the power men have given to her. The old tales are still true. the fortune to be taken by the beauty in the red dress.
It is disheartening the effect of loneliness. How it shares only with the lonely . “feeling so lonely. feeling so unholy.“ It is for self to sit seeing love for self.
and this maybe the first time she has. For acrossed the world goes a thoughts following work. The stress to appear likeable, Or reaching out in friends living what life came no one with a job the nights telling of romance and transendance the arc and cave. a back born aloft. and forgotten.
It is a thought out side in the warm air and the calm field on the other side of the road in front of the house where she sits which attracts her. guys come out on to the porch. and the mask is applied to their advancements. the whole world of women trying to reach out for friendship and truth and getting wants and desires and no heart.
Is she wrong To ask for a cigarette? knowing she needs and can get. Thoughts broken by the first intrusion. ———————————

Many rooms mighty
I sit in the newness of another life seemingly .. Drawn from the abscess of friends and family I lie awake in a rooming house bought and paid with the costs self respect and determination. But it is alive following the knowledge of self , along passions for paths and challenges for growth.
What is my head. thinking about myself , loving the god of a women I met through the system of homelessness and control I have just left. she to her world and I know not where she is , but hold on to my love for that answers what pain I would feel alone . . these are again sad words I should not tell. these are emotions to have is increasing the despair life creates. this is what is answerable to mercy and defined by the mental doctors but never held as anything but poetic and hardly real. …
and yet….
The room is painted an odd overly cheap green, almost florescent on it ‘s metal minimal stucco surface. the typewriter is the right height and I am happy for that. the keys press down and I can write without pain.
But what to say. these last months echo with tales untold or told in lonely volumes of classic thoughts.-G
( i think i missed words check orginal work )

It is a unity she would not respect of him. so he never tells her. he never can tell her the exact words of how he feels , but has learned to feel secretly,.. guarding what is his with a vengeance. his body strong from continual manual laboring, his will determineds like a in progress project. ` but in love he faces much and is scared of what he doesn’t know. but yet tries, the full amount of self , is timed into hours and smiles. he forgot she smiled when he played his guitar. she asked to sit down and was fully truthful that she wanted to listen.
he didn’t think of impressing. it was a day like others and yet… a moment in front of intuition, and path. Walking where love would for love to be known personal and social.
there sitting he left . just guessing his way, without material but music. strings and leaving. escape to the nature of subconscious.

And there is my reaction the physical figure winning in head loving in spirit. and yet.. outside the noise, his heart wasted, on the taking and the giving is eternal and unwanted… there we stand and stand…
oh what fault is doing, when no doing is respected. the figure head of nature is negative for the problems we have left unattended, my history as a dysfunctional child, my world as a destructive past time. We long for the past it is our dreamed

I find another day, and what once matter seems little and obvious. where once was the child I scattered into words and planning literature made unyielding to common mistakes. his surroundings the small town , his growth a pain of parental abuse, this life comparable to history and the respect given spiritually subconscious.. expression and exposure… and it is yet self to see and explain, it is tenderness to know and grow like a polite house plant… , and he I turns to the mirror… as a guide of historic living.
I sit in experience.. left- overs and newly created.. the music is of many choices, the times made of perspectives and understanding. To open the door is to open up truth… to sit on each side and in the middle to know what is the follow ,

and path might be misleading… I must call .. someone. I must move but nothing is the end , nothing is the beginning right now. I am alive and each moment makes the points of being, and I am sitting on the hill, wanting when to come down, as I deny the ground. …


of time is known time,
self decided.. will ?
Is self.
enter the smoke muse ladened forcast and forgotten.
a word from love and tails, speck to the maze of being.
alert is the coward boy.
I hear the instance of success, and determination alive to being at home with the fallen and ruined. I hear the teletype of hands, more than I write,
for there in the manipulation I know not.
Ambigiousness to process.
music calls me to stop being without .. to accept and walk in supulance. I know by knowing. we walk characters to our selves, never the heart enough. living
and alive the nature quest …. another day alive….
craze and whole.
To transent and no…
Do another issue is telling harmonies..
the word , specks many the thoughts to reason.
while pulled from a mommnet missed if let go.
tellling nature to roam
when whole is without decision..
Ambigious.. but to say it means it excists.
is…for young,
old and alike
telling of substance
merit and mighty fight.
alone a self celled mirror.
and what would I write with a key board why would the cries,,,
I an in northhamption I hear.
a exposure, a cowards. drunken singing. bravely.
knowing , the blantant is never to care…\
the cops don’t come and stop him.. and sometimes it is good.
we call home what we need from self.
history alone for the transient man. some times is only the holdings of man away from himself. not taking for granted, himself.
Yesterday , the drunk came on , quickly after the women was thought of. a women a another women. three years since I felt the desire and the smile.
and yet.
My love stands to want to see himself. the golden love for others as a blinding symbol to self. Love and loves replacement. I can sell work to the sun.
a topic….

jUNE 02/2000
and this is no more than a journal no more than a release far beyond that quietness which reached inside man to civilize conversations.
for man is not classifying civility enough. quiet petty secrets. roaming into heresy and there I am to questioning. Beckett screaming for justice against an unmoveable self. for my dream is gone.
I must see my eyes.
glassed over and under cared about.
scorned for sight, for knowledge
contorts and doubts.
I am to remain solo to rejoice humanity.
against the international news.
against the truth without
pretty shaded civility.
The facts which litter courts, probation offices, ”Detox’s” , the streets and jails. Evils of men, women and children, ( I am still not sure which I am) all seem to stream together, into the causes of one to face one; the deep darker views of Nausea, and Waiting For Gado. Evil insides. turned outer, reprieves.
The job of the writer, of the artists of words, is to spin what is into perspectives of evolution and causes to rally to. I did scream at others to tell me what could be, the world of harmonies and realizations only to come to find out the truths of the speaker . I was living. I am man. and hate my mirror. I have cast out god and survive in foul pits of clarity which sickens at thought of hope… until ripe for killing after many years of unknowing silly child’s laughter as nature is king.
misunderstood and ruling. .j.

“and it all hums
around echoing
what is felt
isn’t alone.”

Uncomplete or adjusted , which is worse.
Completely a failure to walk over children bones and a natural desire for thought’s emotions. I walk roads dreamed about by aliens, youths and focus.
Alive in bone, to yet change. Hoping the arisen shall be for
the energy
god and
about the being
congregated neutrons
about no time
physical moment.
Told in tales to ease
yet can not be disthrowned
again and again. the eve and garden hiegth ask to the wind , still, in simple self.

and here to ruminate and tell obnoxious desire,
tell with passions the stories of the fight inner and controled but to die from the excess, or live into a spell true.
happyness the meeting of ideology and practice.

walking alone in the country , nights shadows the ways. night like any . but with trees and the skunk to watch and whistle for. alone in country with larger natural abuses of power. humanity turned to an enforced solitude. . walking the outer common digression of sex, referring to town, while just there is the grove and the hill. climbing rocks and million year old trees, and what.
my feet stink and the river water washes of. looking for Rockwell, seeing a mirror. this me as all. this me bespecticaled and amused , tainted with sight.

my concentration sucks , and there I am wanting this and starving in between , sweating through life, cancered by a life which is cancered for existence. what we will give our children, what I have made my life. I swear I am fucked and yet walk and wake with determination to see the next day.
women take my heart and I want to give, to feel the love like it is some accreditation some pride which I seem to lack without them, some appreciation for which is only the physical. and yet to appreciate myself has been this trip this walking into the country, this lonelyness answered by longing to be with that one, who walks without me and without love. her like me and what is left .
These words are only the life lived and what else am I to see. inside. for to tell the individual is only one story inside the long view. my thoughts turning now to the world the enviroment of the world and the remainder of love to a world consumed by it’s legacy forward and back. and here with my little problems I am not global warming I am not urban violence, or child abuses sexual and violent. disturbing mass in mass and still quiet against the whole of its problems. and yet , I am out of the loop to care. I am in the sidewalk crack with the broken mathers back, and hurting myself for the life I have been given without my concerns a consumed consciousness. with callous hands and feet with shy eyes and an accused gigolos smile, looking for the feeling and feeling the looks, and intuitive destruction , for all are action and will and suttle is the ignornance retained for to understand it a cold barrior to living. and then what is life…. a kind gift to a self long forgotten, I would to be kind to self knowing the road and the will. knowing the courage to go on when the legs are tired and alone. she walks in my reproductive mind? what is love, unity and giving, but to unify

the humidity was comsuming before the rain before the thoughts which went with it such that the blessing is the thoughts more than the rain. when self gets time to vent even through it would be called depression , is a goodness. . the nature tears at the civil flesh to demand emotions. to demand an over view. and so pressed against the fragile glass nature is to know , the complex wandering of images called thoughts. It is this survival for which man wants to achieve and only this way is it so.
“ And yesterday I wrtoe my mother. Yesterday , the letter was some kind of clairity, for which I can not achieve to much of , today it is to another , and tomorrow another loves going like water to stream slowly into my parched lips, a little enough.
and there again I go living this excistance without much recourse exscept to live, the opinion I am is that death is a creative state like life , so the differences are only this body. this body which gets to have sex and gets to physically aranage a room and be praised for its creations when death is entirely creation. And yet the physical gets clouded by life, gets formed when it is form in death. here form is psychological, and must be faced for the limitations of it’s physical life, Beaten as a child and left to understand what creations that has made are the facts of physical being, Or the facts this microcosm feels against the rest of existence. Happiness is left to discovery and I have only much discovered music and sex. And other art. until now I am here walking into myself to know further the determination to go on. but where to go . like today is the next important day I awake to myself again without friends, for the friends I have made are back stabbing and creul. who consume life to kill others and I am aware of the giving we allow our friends to use. but I tire of them and the petty unusefullness they create in my life. in the self absorbed interest they offer. it is all about them. the best of time must always have one negative impulse who sheer excistance make everyone cold and wanting better. the person who is unable to realize themselves but asserts themselves into sistuation as a part of the sistuation but has no intent to really be there they are just wasting everyones time for their own self surface pretentions.
Ego ergo.
and I am here in the seat of the ego tist. me the male, when that is the season and moment. wtch the buffed shoulders and the criminal intent on the lips and viles speack makes dawn and yet it is repeated and found in my friends all walking against a self the forces wasted and the energy left for the knowledge we foolishly report. oh time telling only the wisdom and graces.
anad it is some lost writings these computer tell, corrected and made. lost what did I say why did I say it. what is the mommnets lost for a misplaced type. I do not remember and it all was made for the wind to report.
these are the hours I find. basking in what could be… and
standing alone the field is glorious, the tainted wisdom made first , an unaccepted toy. small shild and beaten hands. the scraping of time against a childs brain, and past is not to be fostered if it is without thoughts for it injuries. thoughts which go on wihtut words and cosmos.
and escape is not the generational gaps of denial, but toward the future, for to know change is first mentioning to enbodiment…
there the mass’s get grace ..where we live to see the spoken man , arising from numb self accusations for the life of in front with a target to his mouth, his paraniod blemishes. and where is he..
him living like the causes of future only remark on the absenss of now. the second is lost to me. for I understand it. and showed my insanity runs, to know and not , but to feel is to know. and I amm agravated in love, and look into the eyes soft and brown . and look into the blues forever look in but never touch the maddness of observation , the insanity of seeing abent part of me, walk without love extreme and amusing.
a nd what is intergrity. what is time spent living. here we go th uses for susing. I am not to be so put , I want and there will find like the telling of an angry house guest, this taking wihout caring , this depletion of my giving my legacy, wuhc that denial is no longer acceptable, that denial is not to be further enforced.
the people are all
and we want an earth
. the insurance agents and bankers need ,
the earth has the answers.
the tide must not instill harm into it’s people.

a place in the tide water town of new jersy , an errant man walks with unconfidence and in fact drunken stubbles down a narrow city street, stop lights his conversation,go sto p go, the facts of a world left to equal what being asks, love given until dryed by every fact, he walks from joy to joy and nothing can stop that.
and telling his story owwould be a mentioning to myuself. his as imaginable sordid as my own made a diffeence by little except the motive, him and I ,
for I knew of him early on the facts mentioned like gossip. a man , I form, but his mind belong with his body. he was and I am an oracle. but our the shirts say Psiconics.
I am … He is …
alll sweared and such, dance around maypoles about , and yet feeling is the amount of time one spends in a mental instituion to admit it. and here we stalmate. one not choosing arms , leaves the other to control. his wide spreading hands an offer to anililate take me…
chirsitain iszed.
and apologetic.
but to stand at all is the grace of the coward, here with arms exposed the masses huttle, and taking themselves to care at all, they take the mother, the earth, the liberty of mans ideas, and the empowerment to change , as a generations anaology. Now we form festivals and mommnetns to time where the choas is the epeace where norms are loeft out side for the simple truths of excistance,f with its reality, man is basicly peace ful. it is only the criminally empowered who fear violent reaction. And with the millions who attend every year there will be mi9llions and trillions who follow. a place where we can be alive without the controls and yet with control for peade is the only real understanding of man, like to family , or what should be family. but like to self. we should love the world like our selves and I stand to say we do feel the world like our selves and we all are in dydfuntional logic to survive, and then what is left of the feeling human.???

I am in the morning, the air is clear and slightly chilly at sixty. I am sick. and tired of being nothing or ranpantly spending my energies without a seeming goal. yes, I lie there was a gaol at one time. a heart. I remember when I left the goal. I was in love. my life was music and telling harmonies of a house which funtioned more like a commun but retained a certain blindness for which I couldn’t stop. though I tried, the people we young and most were rich and care not for the general world and found a message in me , and my struggles to stay alive in a world of mechanical response for the norm… no I refused to be normal. and here I sit wandering over my words like they could save this heart for which sometimes wants to quit and be only. to have children and survive in love only merely and activily like I have never felt fully. The days were of time and quietness surrounding nights of music. but bearing that the people were rich they had no need to produce the music. and survive in that importance. I was alone with them, wanting more but because of my rampant digressions to depression and drugs and alcohol I could only look toward how I felt . and in those conditions I could never make sense of what should have been natural. I am still never really sure what changed the ways I wanted, It was love which started to take over my thoughts , I could find very little representations as a child the more I looked the worse I got until I broke down and cried all Christmas, a sad child in a twenty five year old body. and there I was with a women who I loved but could not tell the mysteries and the dependence I felt for our existence, there was a certain way of being with her that I could not control. I thought her painting was inferior to the questions of art and I remained not to bring it up to her for she had left school and cared not to talk of that which I felt so passionately. but instead went further into the depression and all around me was the same influence. a roomate discoveed the black conspiracy of the world , around the catholic chuch, telling my girlfriend she was committing sin by living with me, and I become morose. and ultimately dispondent. to everything. band stopped comeing to rehersals. Then I stopped caring. what help the life lived if it is ineffectual. why do not people want to join for a future… and it is only the working class that wants change. and unity is change. such that only the needy see and want that future. but all in all it comes down to me here facing the same questions like answeres are only a day away when it has been a whole life o depression and disappointments. I hate systems and can not respect the help I go for , sporadically. I can see it to the eyes like an abused traumatized child might..I can see the lust from women the hated from men. I can see the signs of class I am in the middle of . and feel no one can stand those who would buck the system they have had to learn to survive. and I am alone….
the childhood and the excessive depression makes me often want to forget and join the masses like the innocent man I can pretend only to be. and there is the waste for I am not innocent and I want love. I have taken the day off again to be alive to the pen and the sword. here with fire for my eyes I see the climax of intelligence coming to my thoughts. I want to be alive, and not down casted to the state I have been born into , for it is a birth of the slave, of the man without cause who would rise only to save himself and his children. and I have no children. and suffer what I can not control for the loss of love imposed against me. not as plot I know but as misfortune…

the dayis to tell but it is not the matter, Rumor of hope make me think and there in mty life, I am the roanctic. Still in this age of the dead poet. I hold on to sex and spirituality, I flounder in Francis picking up wild flowers before an apointment with death. But it is not so traggic. staying away from the work I do for the play I love, the writing here, the construction there. while here is construction and yet.
Can a humble man write?
Must not the spirit of continual truth
demand valor and a flaming sword
the call to arms; the call of divestiture.
and not bare names.
have been forgotten
except in the deranged.
the sordid scared and scary.
extremes to move the average only
then let it be known
I am energy
surrounding a nucleus
flowing with physics
contained by concentration
I am discovery and depth times width
and it is another day. the date of which I remember not . the time is three twenty two. and the hour is my life, on a plate with shattered dreams my child crys for. and of a world hearts “talked” since the beginning of time. All coming from knowledge. impervious to religions, theorized by science, proves true to the needy man’s reaching.
Adventure and soul known , conscious of unconscious, forced and innerly determined, human over god.
and there is niether and all.
can a humble man wait by corners to tell what is ,,, declairing its rights to be an inherent leadership value and educational necessity; a planned concentration. this highthening of standard to met the forcast of consciousness.
but not to separate into factions, for the whole light of one is the simple respect to the all.
and who is talking? a none. a unit within, knowing without, to relearn and relearn, to essense and entertain, I am the screaming hearted fool , who’s Romeo cast him down. who’s romance with the adventure have made him a pawn in games he had only a good paranoia of.
and yet he is nothing but a dreamer who knows what timelessness can mean for an individual. to be able to consciously separate and then rejoin with emotions. To technologically apply “ourselves” within states of being.
I follow the emotional states of man. I see what was said by Seth through jane Roberts in the early seventies.
I am a feeling energy. creating through emotions and declaring valor through an emotional cry for the earth and humankind. Answering questions where knowledge would part from the contemporary sciences to nature’s completion through an accepted fact of non-physical creation as a part of waking life.
And yet what is the life , echoed in physical labors, and there my love who would want to have and not to fence with the death art imagaines as reward, for how many unrewarded, is my ignornace such that can not offer what love the life sees enough to enter into books, what concentration the essence made form, I am scared of the reasonings. they make me want to avoid what life this is , we wander through the endlessness of being. and I am telling of hope , where could the time come to be alive with the thoughts, there is no answer , we are connected forever and endless its my want to please her, I am the artist if I accept it or not and the poet dies on the end of the stick.
24 june ,2000
the personal seems again to be the place where we land looking into the words of a spoken life, for these are the words admitted to the end , for an end I think , an end which wants to forget the confusion. Smoke marijuana, and forget heart and goal. I wish for love from the streets and hope from the high. it is wrong to want that, but what else can I expect in a will form which life has turned to a private social conscious and a public avenging man.
I look into this heart and see what everyone sees. I look and see my fear and my lust. My hopes forget themselves for the depression of my working class environment and expectations. I am not an artist. or be cause I do not accept this as art. and low is my opinion of my self. and still I write like writing will change that or like writing will help. watching as my life at thirty five is a lot like my life has always been alone and unloved. I watch as I would rather die than continue like this. I should kill myself, for the years have made what can not be unmade I feel. as I think of another love gone to the world because I was not practical enough. because I am not fun and lonelyness directs my thoughts to much , and here is the thoughts that make this life. and I know not what to do.
Every life I have touch has been a story taken from the truth to be manipulated into this world . I think of death as creative state and there is not death to be understood for here is also creative.
the women for whom I pine over is from a place , like I am from somewhere. each getting the cultures of our lives from this birth place. and telling the story of my love and I is a point of life to live for. a point to tell to the world as a lesson from the mininial. two lives each seperated by birth from love. such that love is the only point of life like poverty possess from the inavailabllity.

There has been literature which told of the absesses of humanity. our souls unpure run in contrast to our moral reasoning Taken from feelings we are left with only thought. but feeling is alive and controling everyone. We, personally and socially emplant the dispassionate views of our earth, in group. Casting out the techological fears and saddnss accompaning it. taken to regular a trillionth part, our feeling s seem trivail. it is the mights would orf thought which rules, but what else is left of life. such that a trillionth part specks to the all which we are.
She moves like a ghost in me. for I am awaken only in the fears of my inablity as I get over what youth laid out as a path. I am to see my heart as the reason. moving me for the thoughts which control no one can change or care about. I have called life the spirit the energy. where man is awakening to a techological peace within feeling. I am an energy, calming the panic animal I find a release from what the animal would suffer. for the animal , was abused , this animal, for the animal was given sex as a replacement for feeling. and what care is humankind to know. for endless time history has recorded the normal, sex is a part of life, and is always a factor. though with “civility” we are to down play its role, never trying to expose what is the private intoxication of our lives. but for some it goes beyond even being a part of life to being the whole . once we are in our lovers life the combination is beyond any other event of excistance. the shorckra , a high point of spiritual physical exuberance, is awake, and love is set free.
but for my love. it is a common need to feel alive more than any love it is a drug , the addiction to the high of testosteres and ecstasy .

Another day. and what the heart spins at the life I have lived and wonder weather to move on to anohter phrase of maybe life. Like from these years of trying without much success with my writing I am forced into a position of feeling old and unacomplished`, I have based my friendships on nothing instead of looking to more of the elements in my life to fullfill what conscious and talent I have .
no, friends have been like me, alone depressed people holding the ways to live inside some fantasy. is that the words, are the small human awakenings been just that. where I have failed to see the truth. of myself. for I am alone. and at this age it starts to find me.. money and giving away my life , thinking nothing of myself in my connections have left me alone. and where is the love and truth life is. alone on a distant island covered by ice on a mountain top.. n o it is evey day here now. but yet things get weighed by the elements which wiegh them and I am easily upset I am afraind. upset by the cost my giving has become to me. my heart lieing to myself. in orde to cover the tragic hole my heart has always been the cold ness is not mine and yet I own it all.
I know that I am not alone in this. constntly I see the faces of the unloved starting out of corners and from stups, from bar stools and in office complexes, I see and am sorry. almost aplogetic for my sight. for it is alone I see and can offer nothing. for I am nothing. my sight is a mourners humaness. wanting courage by entertaining the compation where I have very little. and my love seems enpty and evil.
to share when you have nothing to share is wrong. …
and in over view why would I say I have noting . I am funny at times I have music running through everything I do. and yet. with the lessons I have learned I know the reactions from people from the momments I met them from real, and the momments I met them in the shallow. I am body and looks, then we get deeper and I am writier and artist musician, and then deeper and I am self accusing and wholely involved in what I could call myself such that I am not even interested in them these in front of me, they offer me nothing in life, except a mommnet of diversion. I could be happy with a cat to knock ove the plants and it would be the wamething. where are these answers inside, for there is where they must start, to cure the alienation I feel. the survival sense I must admit.. for where in my heart I have been hurt the pain continues, I look at the times I have lived through. fourteen years of viloents and downgrading critism. guardede me , I would take fright at the first signs of an involvement for which would hurt me. Leaving drugs to others as far as coke and herion , I loved the high of maraijuans which has helpped me concentrate. but has done little for my total consciousness, mediation and vegatarian excistance diverted my thoulghts into the fantasy , I thought of concentration as a miracle of excistance. something others take for granted i couldn’t find. without marijuana. and yet, on the drug my life become meaning less even more yet. I remembe once I was deeply in love but then when I got stoned I couldn’t repeat the caring I felt when I wasn’t stoned I didn’t care I couldn’t feel. and yet that has been a lot of my life, and what starts the changes,
the changes are a lot of years worth of discovery, I started when I realize I could change and that the paths I have been on were only telling me more of the past I have already live. so I tried the differene, and thoughts changed with the actions, I mediated and started this road of common thought in ninteen eights something, in Los Angles. I stopped trying to commit suicide. for which we can tell , as I write I am alive, and not good enough to do the deed , but I awoke from each time , one with gas, one with threat a noose and a third floor fire escape , with some profound sense of happyness, I thought the “great Spirit had saved me. and thought secretly to myself that there was a reason for my life, that the spirit truly saved me.
the time with the noose was the day I tried to hichhike out of LA. , I have done two things that day. besides standing at the road side with a dysfunctional finger waving at approaching cars, my shirt plastered to my chest by sweat , I tried the chant of the America Buddhist, Nom go something something. my youth wanted to try and see if it was a power , wanted to get the hell out of LA with any means available. but the chanting didn’t work all that well, I guess you need the temple, and the other accutroments. to make a full commitment. I just chanted and stood on the entrance ramp. One ride came to take me a full mile to another entrance ramp. then without food and a thrist which would have been noticeable I became ultimately depressed. and the pretending started, the pretending maybe that I would actually commit suicide, cross the great divide and fulfil the meaning of the corpse. but not life I realized, It was on that fire escape looking down at my life bundled in my backpack that I could again realize complete life, enough to feel something. the noose around my neck, the element of death only a second away, I thought about the truth of life beyond the death imposed upon it. the freedom to accomplish for this spirit. some how my thoughts grew clear enough to go on. it was almost a happy experience. coming down like I had achieved something I had survived the death experience.
I had always thought there was a spirit which helped and guraded my life. I thought it was my dead father standing ,through out my youth, at my bedside. helping me survive. then I statrted to think of magic as a point of concentration, and ghost as a real enity and mankind as an energy spirit who in this egg are to graduate to feeling.
then walking back to the “freeway” my hand went up. and the first car was a small pick up with an old hippie off a construction job, who gave me a ride out to Baha where I went to sleep in under the sprindlers there run on the bank of the highway. the coincidence was real the love I felt the peace I experence was almost approachable as faith fullfillment. It had notbeen the first time,when I tried again unsuccessfullyto kill myself withgas I awole with the same feeling as being left for some reason. though now I feel almost that I have done that reason. but any way.
the rest of the trip. taking sixdays, to cross the united states, as good as it gets for hitchkiking I preyed in the mornings, the rides always left me with money enough to get breakfast the next morning which always cost me all the money any one would give, me. the hippie started the trend. and all the way to Pennsyvainia I operated the same way. He told me of his adventure, as a biker in the early sixties, how down in the deep south sounded much like the ride of the movie with james fonda and that other guy. getting arrested for no reason. taunted by townies. the whole ball of hatred roled in to the forgien which the bikers represented. , his small pick up litter minimally with construction belts and circular saws told me of the truth of life, we have to give in and accept. but that still isnt me. and I learned something from the first ride. as well as backed up the spirtis truth of purity..
sleeping under the sprinklers distracted my night. waking to scramble for cover was a new experience also. the bag got wet and my guitar, but my body and clothing somehow was dry but I was awaken. and numbly stumbled to find a Coke out of a machine just over the high way. the darkness and the alien sceene a lone bar echoed into the darkness like a haunting sinerio I wanted nothing to deal with. I slept under some different bushes. Anti social is not the traveler. I wasn’t traveling , I was passing by my way to a defined point without stopping, I couldn’t let up. Also I was twenty. and Holywood started my head a different way.
venus bolvard, tounting with dry shiny drugs in every window. the eye lids heavy from the heat. the heart mangled , my frineds and I partedAround my ankles, old smelly socks , if I touck off my shoes. which for three or four days didn’t happen and , right then I wanted a sign a way to walk, and I was no longer living , I was seeing the ways, emparted to many and seen of too much.
A diner sat beneath a traffic light, the red leather chairs and stools, a stainless steal countrer , the whole place mommnet of design from the Thirties, an blond wigged old lady bent, with firm steady motion , between caring and not, behind the counter. a smile for the customer, a weird eye for the seeming crazy homeless man, grasping himself by the croach while pays for the coffe in his hands, pink “holey” and thin mittened in ninity eight degrees , at nine am.
After getting kicked out of a rooming house, for a poem I wrote on the refrigerator. Pagan direct it was called I walked out of the town… Hollywood,
and now remembering , It became night, the beach was free and left side of America. cleaning the sun as I was afraid When again that… vision the descending sun , I guess it was a stage and everything was just to look at , nothing to involve me so sacred this frame,

yea , right, so sacred my fear of people. .

Pagan Direct
(taken from the refrigerator on Hollywood and Vine)
If you cry,
for you be not important
you have forgotten
the holy goal
which is not to be
the golden strength of the many
but the pure and loved
of the few.

So superior I felt, here leading the adventure to the limit; creating, I thought secretly about it. very secret, I always knew I wasn’t really there but experiencing something out side of me, a character portrayal , part of my writng, I had no judgement of others. moral was pronounce “more all,” other things like that I keep secret , much insanity making the morning clear in the Los Angles air..
The forty-ish dark tan, slightly baseball coach-like plumb superintendent, directing his others of the same race, responded, that he didn’t read the refrigerator when I asked.

Where to go? Left to the diners décor, impressions maybe my grandfather would have seen, another oldish man in my thoughts who I maybe only glorify, as he paint nice pictures the family dog, I recall in my mothers room in days when I would sneak into her room. through the button can. looking for the riches of the house. a silly tale that would be, and appeasing to think as the street dries all my California dreamn’s, after the panic structured street I had left in Boston. I am free.
I am alive, alone and some how unafraid really, nothing seemed different from the kind years running around the Boston street. , You only get what you give, and if you don’t give, you might get blind sided for your ignorance. , .. funny that…
so you see everything and comment on nothing.
but worlds and words are not that..
I stood on that corner for almost an hour , paid with the last coins , for a coffee, and decided to sleep on the ocean’s shore. Once there night was coming the sun sank into a everlasting white froth flaked sea, slightly green to balance the expected blue again fooling expectations and God lapped desperately the shore trying to instill creation.
And Adam and Eve were not the first, god just decided to let the children live, when all become theirs. children must experience the sins of the father to be ….
and orange, tied the rest of the world to a night starred sky. then cool air chilled me and my poncho became my accepted home.
It is funny the accepted how sometimes it is to important and other times acceptance becomes a will to look through to look at it.
All night awake. I listened as the ocean told me the words I needed that there is nothing bigger than it and someday, Nature will be alive and comment on the world it would find in its children; the loudest echoing tale finding a resolve to be apart. No matter what culture and civil positioning would speak of my bed. for here I am nail in a coffin, or / and an energy experiencing freedom’s pertinent glasses.
and here would be the book here the tales from travels and ventures , the giving to others ideas , and taking for my own. here would be something of literture thourgh I acke to think sometimes. as failure looms where the head would rest in the failure of observation, for I am not observing enough.
The room is eighty bucks a month, and the desk is an old eighth inch steel music stand. tilted horizonal.
Ihave not been to College , and go we say to the person in front with little direction enough. the years spent dictated by a system of flatters, the old and meek, secret conspirers of thoughts and plannes and plots. And
am I plotting , and only appling my feelings to devious reasonings, and subtle gesturings. smiling to understand my slavery, the demands from boss and God, what should be my first liberty is given to fifty three dollars and twenty nine senses, when the ultimate meaning is not denial but acceptance that emotions matter, and I have been told about the end of time, watching the television in My home town during the three mile island incident, when I lived less than fifteen minutes to it by car. then paraded to the parking lot during seventh grade, everyone was remind that we we are only getting the same radiation that we get in front of our televisions and we all went back to class. . Our hearts still racing from the local television crew which went over zealous and announced an evacuation. . my step father wanting to run, such that for four hours my mother , brother and I ran around getting can goods and a small box of screws, my mother interjecting that we hadn’t heard everything, no one else was talking of an evacuation, but none the less it created a demand in the step father, Mother , jerry and I figured the hyway would be packed and here at least we could have Ice cream…. ..
all this to say, I want to talk of the intircates of today, where my love has gone, how much I am to hold it back, while she is calling now being home , coming to the room on the exact day I was off, cleaning, and just made coffee…. the tides of love seeing there matched moments, like movies help us to see, and we create in our lives. but somethings you can create, they happen and this pagan mind will and beleieves others should pay attention with all your heart to the complete views , time moves slowly to the spirits knowledge for it is only one element, and stationed physically in soilds when emotions are not a solid. degrees change as the physical spirit ,the neutrons of consciousness , when we are happy , sad and other wise, minding that this is pre theory and yet a decent explaination why falling in love slows the vibration energy of the physical spirit and is ours , to celebrate in , and cure with.. it is freedom to which we want our “persuit of liberty” …
I want to write a roaming novel. one which doesn’t waste time resolving exterior matters with plot and prejudices for character, but moves from the man to the man to the audience and the man. or here is to want and daring ly I have step this wanting, coragiously I lusted after the leisurely word, the directionion of self from the archk which would be understanding , the arck which was star track an the feel good seventies, born to the sixties… but the man is only glorifying himself, with the pretension that his story is anything but another written book. another thing to own and rest coffee cups against and chant to children with driving them to understand the unlimited second while they teach and we care for the elders in cotton and pins.

and it is another day.
turn slowly the ways of the obnoxiousness. my talents for nothing comes as expected glances I was trained for , beaten inot a box form and cast out looking while the search is for not. I Know the answer and useless the pill , the swallowing is admitance the life is admitance. what future lacks the expectations forward. and there we look. for the vision is known and unwasted to the seer. what cast the relvance of a heart in trauma of its own sight, for what it lacks in definition it logically makes up for , I have cast my head into the sea, for the comfort of pleasure without the romance of polotic. In other words , once again , If I do not give up my present stances I will be lost and forever never to have again.
and there is where the stranger gains reputation and society gains paranoia. what gives me to survive. what hope must be from the hopefull actions , I am learning the self is the hopefull and what pleasures would bring have only more fixations into that hope and yet are not the hope.

what makes the day.
without physical labors I am free with the money provided by the expenture. and here sitting life. the future. the conspricay.
ending in the eyes of another. what age marse our thinking , or is this just part of the age. for I am confined by the wanting and the love.. the wanting is to produce. the volumes of inner thoughts we can not hold by watching time. it is to thinking involved with life . which gives what would be. the action is heart.
and there one who I would want to talk to . one who knows me enough to say hello. Ages go by with only life. to gage right and wrong. for the realism has no choas no room for emotions. and I can not enact though I would try to try .
There in front of me is another who would take up the cause for music . but one can see she is not ready for the truth. the truth isnt ready for her. she is looking for truth. and inside her what does she feel but a border to being her self. alone against the rationalism. alone with the rationalism. A solitude that threatens her physcically. she watches the life being thrown into her face.
I see her sitting and wihtout invite. I say hello. she is polite. I am polite we talk about shared time. and it is meaning less. some one comes up and the frail living would hurt the frail. you sitt and say nothing like no one notices you everyone wonders why.. quiet andwanting attention. getting attention and living further the facts.
for I am a man who has only the life to push for maorals. I want truth inside of life in every moment, and what are the rest holding family and grouping in heart , while facing the external world , and if you are not part of me I can treat you with subconscious attentions. you are this and I am this, I want this and you are that…except I am not to want the whole , that is what is inside my heart and destine to stay there with all the lying it entailsis my thruth. be it without culture or concern for social common respect. coldly I come to my emotions.

and tales from the dark side. I am in the country. this land of milk and honey ,vermont cheese and other delicatcies. is a land of violence. the citizen stand in mute ingnornace while the rest of life what portion is not them , is agleam with costs and comforts insultive to the poor of the streets. or is it me my way of seeing , and the skills are meager to understand the angles. Walking proud in many a small town around this larger valley, are gangs, Latin kings , and the such, they are banded ignorant scared people wanting a life of the properious they see everyday. Mean while I met all other kinds , this is a well traveled isolated civility, borders with international photographers, I , with limited looking have met to with world class names on there resumes . but what is the story about,
the children.. here they are from 12 to twenty, watching the streets as their own part of life. a limited study and yet with the same conflicts with different codings. Here a bottle of liquar is success and access grants lose of virginity and the right to anger adult violence occures. Unreported crimes happen almost everynight. even while the reported ones (need research) mount up..
The streets smell of perfume and fancy gas burners, rampant suv’s, and the new vw while burned out over miled econoimy cars runn neck and neck with the former, are filled with the truth of America and the small town. The cool is to be dangerous and live on the edge. It is to look and act with a certain reverance to the whole. like the group- out sizesits own poputaltion. and unity is never broken though always unspoken. it is ways of dress and habits. and conduct usually starts its own topics and laugh tracks. where an outside idea can turn a happy conversation into a night with which the life remembers in broken bones or scares. Where alchol inflicts a strange balance in these youth and they turn violent. any one new becomes a target.
and yet it is the civility of life in a world which denies. for we stand for nothing if not to show the lessons are children should learn.
and we are not standing with the same pride our brotbers and sisters are taking when they are talking about who they have beastial relations with. these children represent what the truth of our land is… the truth of the disavowed ,

Another day
here spending nights and days walking what is life. what is thoughts and action or what is reaction and more reaction. what other to have.
my self is a baot awash with the times which tell the tale more than the hailing some child who move within tides of being. And I call never the home which bore me. my mother her hard heart watched as I failed and held never my hand. I am cold and never feel alive much. the time speacks for its self. I am wnating whaere there is no heart. to find heart. and acking within that there is only the sore facts of self appreciation and truth. for I am to learn now what years couldn’t teach and only seconds comprehend.
I am responcible for me. and the pain can be felt or left to the side to be claimed by the fools which follow the wisdom of logic. further than I will eventually go.
I rest my love in sadder eyes hoping to be of use for the caring I want to give.. and I am wrong for I am the one who needs the careing and I am the one for whom the careing should be shared with. and yet. .. what comes is only the idle whiff of smoke . ..
from a gun barrel fired of into the air at a cloud , I guess.
July 22, 2000

And what makes this life important, for I write nothing for the outer world really. Plots are beyond me. I care not for the prejudice and opinion. I care not for the abstract representation of normacy. what I care is the exposure of the individual and the evolution of human universal response. Inside my life I search for that response inside my life I field the questions universal life finds in its exploration of his mind.
and like the existentialist I am alive to all sides of my life. I can be weighed down by facts the world faces. I was abused as a child and am now dealing with the separation of my love from the sex I lust after. and I am human.. I have seen ,the reverses also. I have felt the nessicary facts of being alive to the meditation and the facts of my own morality. these facts have made me whole in all regards even when the work produced seemed less than real. the roads have caused me much pain and suffering but that is life . to see the truth is to suffer the knowledge. I can see no other reason for art but to communicate the ultimate being. And the facts of survival are really a matter for pre-theory. Faith has become a common sense for which we all must have to find peace. and it is not contained by religion. no matter religion we have it. It lies in the ability to transcend our lives , our physical evolutions, enough to find peace. It is science, and or just logic, but a lived logic as aposed to a doctrine or a dogma. Through this search of mine I have found a door open to let the past not create a troubled future in so far as I am to contain the basic elements which would hurt others and put me in jail , for I was an abused child. Terribly abuse though I have met worse.

And it is another day
I did not go to work to work here maybe.. the reason I mean. and is it more.
I feel acertain amount of disconnection from my life trying to figure out the right moves for the goals. trying to figure out the goals .. maybe that is again why I have tAKEN OFF WORK. oNE I DON’T CARE FOR IT ANYMORE. THE WORK IS NOT THE RIGHT KIND. my families blood would tell me to shut up and go… the blood of the worker, pensions and promise. I sit wondering where the next idea will make me tell the yruth wondering what is the truth with the life I must avoid to live if I grant everything. if I am currently . feeling for a removed lover. if I am feeling for some other kind of united friend. even if I am just not letting anyone take advantage of me. for right now I have the apple for the eyes,, hangging in front of the starving. but I don’t want to be in there lives not all, they walking where I can not knowing not my pain. saying we are the same threatening my physical.
After all these years I can not let my anger go it has be come something of a fear. I am starting to shake more and the tendancy to feel justified, if one can do such is straonger than it ever has been and yet it is just part of a separate character.
I can piece it apart for what it is , seeing the traits knowing thre is no place to be come the fool except in the head… a spirit is never.
Work , the ways to complete ethics. Confidence and mastery, brains awash , zen.
Work , here the nature of nature is not to be bought, it is made and then paid for.
It is art….
and costs , deserted streets, cautious inner mirrors, and comings glass lines
extroverted without the gregarious carnations arranged in a bowl.
the brown wall window pain accented in white.
Work…. the foundations laid to stand without foundations. without the need
I guess, for the irony is forever.
and does one consider the ways away to be, when ways away
are away from the ways,
I know I am insane.
and I know there is ways to be away…I know for the mediatation lead me there
I know; be cause. the time went time less, and absolutes can be felt , and left go.
without considerable body ,
I know.. and I pass the sword to you.
I give of love and life
to be life at all.
oh sponsored showing , work..

it is not of me to know. Know more…
no and know.
funny that.
I cry when I see the absolute
worked into the langurage not to see, the arisen day … I see it as conspiracy

is it work
to proclaim the ecstatic.

part one.]
I have again faced the pain of death. an attempt to murder me happened two weeks ago. from this date, july—-
how does this work..into my master plane. the face five shades of red, bllod burst emcapured by skin. swollen like a step fathers slap. I didn’t fight back..
work.. writeing….
anger violence
the assorted traumas
of a war inside America .
homelessness in the city.
is the caravel of social service monies. work
Anger enterprise.
I am sore yet and wanting. and her the desire to be alive transcend the doing. the survival is a held hand against another. a violence which sickens my mind. which greives me to want it in some queer sense while denying it. and yet it is another civil joke.
Vengeance…. not that.
I am a pascfist , guess. .
work. sex. must have…
must leave this frame into the purple loving space . must through bone and breath, investigate limitlessness, the arch easy of your back into poition without dancing out intricate balllet.
and wife and lover.
and none , haunting neon sign stands, alcohol and leather stool, I drool in the corner and write sometimes. Inside the dark , calming thoughts came in the “watery running” over streams conscious and un…
whole room could be watched, and experiment In logic and appreciations the of mimunal .. of loves and smiles. Heart exzuded and leave of sometimes. friends at least with only a couple of losers of which I was one. BArfly, sitting watching like it, the great social could move.
a pen and paper, conducting my interest along with anyone present . people left me alone , and I lived careless and free…
after after after, time. I wanted more and only could interview people , I could not give or get more than that, I wasn’t alive I was a clown, sitting talking to himself in expressive ways alone. a genius of sorts casting away the material connection.
I would sit for hours with the pen scribbling . I was alive to the deadness for I was alone. and in these streams are only the solitude. And why , the sights of the walls with plywo lines. ghosts and minimal forms. Staring into my beer when the words left me dry. and where are those words. where are those tides of the daily. gone into the elements , lost to moving and sorting out nothing. but the muse. the second beer would be enough to cast me out and look around, the sorted looks one gets when they sit up after sitting down writing after a half hour. the egotistic, look away. the character for which you have become sitting, stands in there minds. you are a character and the shadow proceeds.
I felt increible exposed. No one knows me and I am not into meeting the locals, they intentionally look away. Like I was only writng to make create the impression . to get laid . and I learned much from those days, staring only started the flows , the first times sitting closing the joint became a time and a quest. finding adventure with the women and hearing the greatest tales of lying and bold debonair eloquence. and even life lies. the pretension and vibes , the meat market approach to this small local city bar. Late twenties early thirties crowd. Construction and accountants all with the stories , the pretense. and I felt the prejudice. Writers should not go out it just upsets the rest of mankind.
but most important thing was I changed from being a recluse, wasting my time within a small group of people who didn’t have the drive I had. I came into the sistution knowing only the connection I have always had with people . Years of customer service without me interacting with the people I served. I was only to fullfill my job and go on. the rest was and still is funny I have a hard time fitting in..I am always outside wanting in but not able to reduce my intelligence or street savvy enough to let the bullshit fly. so went I started talking I was exceptionally alone even after a full night cavoring. waiting I guess for the right women. the right minds. the heart of mankind. and truth is I was emptied by the contact. Emptied of my love enough that I started to feel as down and ugly and stupid as everyone around me. moving to the country has given me a new look at my life. and I am ready to do something…the choises are there inside the everyday I have lived. and now I must come to the conclusions if not now never again.
I am going to work achieve for the futrue the reasons I am for now. but this is not good reading.. the statement can be made without any real blood. but I can feel the future. and if not the music than the writing or I will go for some acting. but I will never give up. I met a women who is as confused by life that I was at her age and yet she is writing and trying no matter the world we both were raised by. she is not with me but she showed me love like no other women I have ever seen. I know I can be loved again.

it is day, and I acke for a women. some meaning where is only the abstract.
and is that wrong , life would say yes.. that is wrong but in this world of have and have not the without are society. Is there another reason to wake and bath and smile and search. consciousness??? yes the world away from the world, If I was alive I would be equal to the lonelyness the crying game made simple and I would have but complex I see. hoping she will come back and hold me . that she would understand what the world is with another and yet I am not to need in order to have , presenting the face which hold self importance around the whole and that is not me. and it is a million. but lonelyness as a concept is world wide. In streets in cities and small towns, on the side of the road next to corn fields , inside bars with crowds ,Lonelyness runs through humanity endless and there is no cure, it is conversation and fullfilled gargariousness. And when the spirit is alive in me I can only see the life offered and given. but what am I to the giving. I must find life for myself , and these words and all writing can not give me partnership. only having life flow through life can give me a whole feeling , she is gone , and yet in my hopes not, another is in my mind but refuses me also. I want her like the green of a tree and such is need to love and care.
it is again another day.
I have talked to the women who loved me in the drunken commitment of intuition and sex. Her brown eyes making me nervois where normally I wouldn’t be. she is so beautiful and so distant. It is hopefully the moments to remember so many years have been spent already loveing someone who can not love… It is me knowing I am unloving I wonder. I watched her eyes look away. I watched what was love finally fade from me. she has accepted the dream of loosing. the linear has made it into her mind and she looked away. the correct world an escape from drugs and drinking. like there is reason in life. not that she will have to learn to deal with the crazyness on her own terms like so many. the high is the dream of love.
Ever addict needs to know that there is a natural happiness. It is to follow the dream to keep alive the happiness. there is no other lessen to learn. All the rest comes.
but to take my own concerns and live my own happiness. Just accepting the path. staying happy , and not estatic, but simple and peace ful. content. but equal to the talents. It is time to stand Alone like we all must. and the path lives yet I don’t like it. the tales of simple love fall shallowly on the civil survivers who plan through lies and humble suppressions. who go to work when they want to live other things. who tell themselves to forget forget the family you have left behind. forget the lovers who have forgotten you. remebered the lovers you have turned away. the killing of spirits everywhere we forget. I watch and listen as my male friends forget love for the success, the conquering machoism lieing and brest pounding. killing ourselves with the ego of our controls.
and my friend that women , she is beautiful, torn inside by drinking and forgetting for there is something inside her story she refuses, and it is that which haunts her. the forgetting to much to remember. Her dreams seem only alive with the rebellion to forget.
she writes tales like I wrote when I first started the hours spent teling my life to a notebook while outside the world hatefull wanted to fuck me. taking what they wanted leaving the wasted love lieing somewhere , cold and learning lonelyness alone. when I first learned to forget.
and I see that in her, the stories seem to run like that the young and sensitive being lead down roads untill we wake up to find ourselves after walking down all the endless leadings going no where.. lives to forget . these petty leadings, the lieing , the cruel misshapened lives responding to each other we become mishapened from our spirits , I hate myself. I lost her from a moment of hatred. I did something to piss her off. and she will never forget the pain. even as she will not know the pain she caused me. waking me up at three in the morning after she went out on a date. leaving my pictures, which she would have had to in order to give them to me. she meant to leave me. but the dreams created between us leave me wanting her today. the facts of lies is that they are meant to be truths. I felt a future for us. But that is me. I read and create future with every women I am with, thinking this time endless partnering a chance for happiness and fullfillment. but they were just moments .. nights , a pretty girl the pool table. her kisses with men swarming around her, she walks up to a man and asks him to buy her a drink. her long legs trying to get there eases. I said I didn’t have any money. so she made gesture to lure another man to fullfill her desire for alchol. her refuses she get pissed. Sadly she is with me. and yet I would still want her. like I expect this why else would anyone want to be with me. that is another side of me talking getting into affairs with people who I don’t really like. but I liked our converstions I like the feeling of love and with blinders again I reached into the world to come up empty. Is that life? did man kind get created just to look longingly at what it would have liked to create, and never had the will to live.
Have we created reason to explain our inability. leaving our white hearts in the balance. The truth of my heart says a lot to me .
the feelings and intuitions have wanted to be pleased like her. wanted the attention when I was young , desire the love now. but I have become the elements I couldn’t understand in Beckett and Satre the truth of my foul spirit looking away while the subconsciousness flows against the morals. I am the world , and yet there is hope it is the future as a day is to the one past.
and yet here is another day. Last night awashed with the foul smell of the innoscense in a voice and body of the aged. And should the tale be told is it important..I guess the answer is yes.I guess because I am not sure .
So another women another day. the space of moments outwieghing the intelligence of years what is life without love . without the emotions and feelings are we not just stagnate masses walking the cynical earth demanding the pleasure of the physical cursing our spirits for the controls inflicted apon them. So, when sh was there I looked away knowing I was filled with her. knowing I was feeling love , knowing love for her. and wanted to look away. untill she started talk to me. and I couldn’t control myself around her. She asked for mon ey the fact of which I have very little. ten dollars and I had only twenty and I gave it to her. knowing she would go off with it . and never see me about it. I fact I wanted not to talk to her. leaving somespace between us . such to feel my heart and know the truth of time. but she came nearer and nearer, her actions telling me she was bored with the one in front of her an aging songwriter posing for the lack inspiration he really feels. her long full legs demanding my attention even as I have known they before as she poised on my bed for a picture in water colors. she stood on the other side of the pooltable in the bar my heart going out to her but to no avail. I knew she wanted the money when she spoke my name. her glass was empty. she told me of needing for. I knew she wanted a drink. and so I let her take the money on the lie. knew she would drink and off the two of them went. the sad faced needle nosed irish flunky behind her. her highth making them look like a comedy routine , stumbling out the door as I played the rest of the game. and then some hopeing for her return. An hour passed they weren’t coming back. I knew I was waiting and wanted no more to drink I had given away my head for my heart again. and felt used and stupid. but knew I wanted to catch her with the rest of the money in the other bar she would find. and I did. Walking up the street I checked every bar, never knowing where I would find her. untill the third one she was there , her migit on stage alone trying to tune a guitar. and her drink empty. she see me and tells the bartender I will buy her a drink and saying I owned it to her for the twenty five times we had sex one night. Smaller and smaller I felt. looking at her knowing the love as an emptyness a bad love emotionless at that time for the moments shared and left. for the smallness she was createing in me right at that moment. I did buy the drink, a snake bite it was is called and the knowledge and the fig tree. bite me. and then I started to get mad. a torent of feelings meting truth. th external seeing the internal. here reality. there the heart. one fighting the other for control. and the finallyi loiiked at her. and said . with some hightened volume. “I believe in the moment. the hight of life celebrated can always be . that love conquers all the obsicals.” and I lie here. for the last part I didn’t say. and she just shook her head like she wasn’t going to hear or react.. her drunken state knowing that you can not drink away reality, shaking her head with her eyes closed like I was torturing her with reality. a reality she couldn’t control and she didn’t want to see. I just wanted to hold her knowing she was feeling such conflict and pain. This was the reason for the alcohol : for the avoidance. and why she held on to the sick little Irishman’s inaudible singing on the stage. the guitar out of tune playing the common cords with a tone of hopelessness. Whom she told everyone was Great . she almost cried and I did. leaving the bar after she motioned the bartender that I was being abusive with the reality. I told her to take care and stay healthy, with a peace sign slanted over my heart and walked out , the pain in my head and alchol in my viens. I saw only my foolishness for believing in love, and I hit myself and ran to a path behind my house, punching around the eyes ,three,four times. I cried long and deeply the screams sounding like the devils laugh at the impotence. Crying at sky until , I finally broke down and wailed even louder. my head pushed against the ground my back arched my whole being taunt, forcing out the frustration. Knowing I was alone and unloved everywhere. screaming to the ghost of the past to love me. Innerly is the solitude of pain known as the rain poured lightly down.
but then it started to be more. I wanted to react without thought for myself. And waited outside the bar wanting them to come out . knowing I was going to attack the little man for his lying about me the first day she and I met. Saying he knew me. saying I was a child molester. he lied about me to her. and implanted the words so that I could never be with her. He killed me in her. and then I wanted revenge against the lying. I saw them leave and started running trying to get to him I wanted to kill him. and there it is. another untold of human reaction , the beast which goes blindly into violence.
as I was running down the street seeing them hand in hand like a couple of fools, which they did to piss me off further. I saw two cops. and was reminded of jail and civil law which protects the weak and defends the hypocrites. and I felt it , the reason coming into my veins. I would not go on … I would talk to the two police officers . they listened. taking down my name for no reason but to write something. and I was beyond the beast again. knowing the reaction of time to the will I had worked my brain into .
and there we stood .I was feeling the pain of life. for all life has created this pain. the tortured earth needing peace and love but being denied by the wicked who lie about what they are doing to the environment. and our fighting spirit which feels the need to react is laid low by the law; stopped by the defamer who control. I stood with the police shaking. Knowing I must go on from this night….but what of the morning of the new day. as it rains I sit typing and can not work.
\Funny nothing is more important than going on , but what is on.. I sometimes wish I could kill myself and forget this world and all like but I know it will not be the end. I can not help by sacrificing myself on the pain I have felt for alone will be you and for you I write such that you will not be me. but you will be and then you can know ,no matter your state, you are not alone…

so it is to expose life through these words, to expose my life and a story of the all.
anther day toward the late of days.
here thinking I know what rule I broke again with the women I had talked about yesterday. there is an little explained rule among single men to have love instead of just sex. Never go to bed with a women on the first night. never give in to the lust. even if you feel the romance. If it is true you will feel it the next day. I felt so connected to her I wanted it all. and to have all is to give up controlof life. . and even as that makes a good sexual partner it is only a treat and not love. I wish I would have never given back her ring. She meant so much to me. Life being fullfilled by another who would love like I love. claiming sanity from the sight. and yet I am wrong and life is wrong. for not living close enough to my heart. Her qualities out wieghed her experiments of now. If I wanted more than now I should have lived it. but I did not and I feel I have lost her. and will never see her again in the same way. I am a fool.
but even fools must go on.
but is it to go on foolishly? I look around the town I have come to . this land of building , isolated between farming and country hills , inside canopies of colleges, and the connecticut river, and I had hoped for a new life. One filled with success. One of the magazine The Enertial Call. one of hope with nature mixing my life with another. and what is here. but the fumblings of country folk , hidding from the lives of insanity they have lived in isolated quietness. So many stories already. So many cast down eyes and hopes fearing this land. of endless ignorance. For culture is talked and not lived here. culture is the pretension of class among the edicate of strangers. while nature proclaims its eternal quiet controls. A Man thinks not more than about his farm or he leaves it for the rampant success of his thoughts. a blindness again for I am talking about life ingeneral, repeating the cliché about bliss. repeating what would have been mine had I not left this years ago. wanting to search out life fully. but here I am , I have returned to what I had left. the children in the streets are me. Looking stupidly at the full moon knowing only the inablitity. Hearing only the demands from cloistered people of what I should do and who I should be. and I am nothing. Such is the attitude on the streets. such is the ignorance.

It is another day.
my heart is long from love. for I know notwhere it is . I have lent it to a women who steaches herself against twin beds of drunkenness and sanity. while writing her mused heart.
I love her as she infects me with ultimate lonelyness again.
I watch her when she is near never feeling alive. her down cast eys and sad mouth. always lonely surrounded by the men she would lead. And I danced with her. and yet never touched her , wanting to be with her forever. my blood surged to be near her and I could not. so I couldn’t touch her. and yet just for her near I waited by her shoes which she left by me. wanting her always. and yet know this is the partner who will let me write and love forever in tragic eternity.

I wake to the gray clouds which predict the day so unmercifully. will it rain today. will it just cloud . my whole day lies in the telling , the last of my money spent on the conclusion the last of my life and food spent to find i Ian make life the hard way on guessing.
and I wake to find that women in my head . thinking is she alright. Even when I know she’s not thinking of me. and yet it is one for another, the gray day giving me doubts as to what I should do. The air blowing cool and tempting to the rain I would imagine. her refusing my call Yesterday with the lying sisters voice. knowing first that she was home and secondly asking who it was that was calling. My back is starting to hurt from lying in bed. and yet to get up is only pain in general. There is no other reason to arise from these sheets except to love or to work. The television is at my feet. air blowing in is cool and telling of sleep . and the dreams give me life.
My age and hopelessness is bonding me into a future I care not for and yet it is truth. I am depressed and have come to such a state as to feel it mix into the general reality without any highs or lows to direct it. It is all low. and I don’t know what to do about it .. such that I have never known. I will make coffee. and then feel my way through the rest of the day. The coffee is again to strong such that I must take water with my coffee. I don’t use anything else. easiest coffee in the world to make.
you know it is quite a talent to know what to do with your self when not at work. although there are people who get paid to write. but not as one of them I have the luxury of not giving a good fuck about what I write. notice the coffee line. and with my coffee and a freshly rolled cigerette from old butts in the ash tray. I am quietly consumed for a matter of moments with this past time. for right now for me it is all past time. and these words the art of writing. my tone , like the colors used in abstract painting reminds me of Nausea, and yet such is the reminder of my life right now. Hear as I give love to the loveless idea of a women. her picture sits on the wall, she is reclined on the bed staring with closed eyes at some flowers. the back ground is yellow with a blood line for the horizen. and a frame in black and white hangs above her, with two figures inside of flesh colors without form except the bare minimal. one in red out line the other with more form in black with breasts. a determined face pushing through the right hand edge. and a ghost spirit figure coming from her head. the bed is blue. she made me happy enough to make it but the picture is all her. glazing over the reality of the flowers with the dreams which never intersects with the living. It is a hard life to live, when realities can not come together. . and it hasn’t rained and I guess I should be going to work. but I don’t think I will. because I am tired of the picture. and my destitution is pleasing. in regards to the years I have left. weather they be shortened by my own hand or just the imaginations of some death to come about. I feel time is short. Like I have always felt. my head clogged by the curtain of depression. the chemical cotton balls of half a brain at any one time. and so I write. ..
It is funny for the self confidence of being, I have none. I am only driven by the flow of the words and the philosophy; the emotions of life. To the women with the big brown eyes and curves I have given the all of my being which she would use to get the last drink for the night and discard me like I am allowing her to do. Walking off with that other I have describe before and need not do again. but it is fullfilling to know love and passion and importance. Maybe just to know anything and move along the inspiration weather to my death or life. the world has become nothing but that… some search for motive or conclusion to make feelings. I want to live the exact of that and nothing less, such that going to work would only waste what would be a glorious day writing even as I feel it is useless. What else is useful? the money would only more drive me to drink. Give me only more of the ‘reality “ of having and having not; such that I would rather entertain myself with the passion than the denial…Or maybe it is the denial rather than the passion. for to work gives the gems for which I can buy loves freedom. I can not have fun enjoyment with another without money.. or so it would seem with the hours spent without good conversation. except with that women I mentioned and should not mention again.
There is other women infesting my celibacy. Dreamed of women who run the rampant ruins of my perversion and idealize love making. Younger women, and older. Women I have written love letters to for years and women who I have thought about and shyly grin at walking down the street having seen them enough that they also grin. and move along never to stop for my insanity is known on the streets I cry and walk sometimes. and am known and taunted by the street children. though I do not consider myself all that insane no I see myself as normal and the rest of the world stops themselves from living out their emotions even though all of life is of those emotions. Animals have them so why do we deny them. so I cry when I want to cry even though I don’t want to cry the telling of my pain is alone and coldly accepted by society. It is release and failure to do so for me would further complicate my life such that I would react like men will with violence for which I , if only of one, refuse to be lead into that egotism. but to see myself I am a coward of my life long goals. and confidence would put me beyond these wishes . only to be enacting life but yet sometime I feel even confidence is ignorance for what confidence the major movements of history have produced. such that it seems all action contrives to hurt someone somewhere and we are all guilty of crimes against humanity.

It is later in the day , I wrote for some hours this morning and now again , I feel like a loser. and I guess I am , the standard note of a loser would be a man who can not keep his life together. I can not keep my life to gether. only these words and trying keep me from totally losing. but I am not on any mission which would advance me. I am still falling for every love ever offered, to the point of pushing them all away not even seeing what greatness I have about me enough to overcome the facts. I want to die. I can not change. I am mad at the world , and when it stricks at me I am even madder. because I am afriad to react . I will get sent to prison. I will be made to go insane. I cant stand to be confinded. and I am scared to react. I am insane. and I hurt myself for no reason. like there is a reason to hurt self. ai am suffering from depression all the time and it effects everything I do. and everyone I met.
but I guess every time I go on without killing myself I am free of the burden for yet another day. but yet the influence is upon me life the endings of life can be so easy. like a moment can turn the rest of life.
so here we are, a small coffee house the women is there with the toad at the mike. I don’t say hello much. I move within sight of her but can not bring myself to say hello because of her positioning, she is sitting in a corner with people on each side. I just make my presents known and move away. I didn’t want to talk to her because the preformer is her friend no matter what I think I don’t talk to anyone if I want to hear the act. so I just made my presents known. she looked great. her tall form in a nice black dress her hair pulled back. My pulse was racing just for that one sight. I talked to friends , she passes by , she doesn’t notice me. she did but didn’t want to say she did. did want to walk up to me. when she went to the phone. She said last to give her space and I do. she walks after me in the bar. she comes up to me like I am no one expecting me to make the interaction and I feel stupid doing it. I am not getting to talk to her normally. so I guess it will not work out. I must resolve the tempting to love without connection. I did it before. where the spirit of the matter seemed to outwiegh the truth. but what is love if not spirit. what is trust but knowing she’ll come around someday. but I must not get near her for a while but what if I lose her. because I couldn’t say hello. she doesn’t answer my phone calls. it is over but yet I know she liked me for that moment maybe that is all I can get is a moment. I should be happy for that and go on. but some how I think she will come around someday. maybe…maybe a gig will be the moment she sees I am the right one for her. maybe her love will come through and she will find in her heart a light which has my thoughts written on it. maybe… to many I guess.
and yet the plot thickens nun.
there is no call to angels unrested and waking to wuick. no call to the endless which is mourned nightly from in inadquacy of it vocabular to express in blue and green the endless clouds thick , and fluffed soft like streams of which flow in to the back blue a floucesent changing to dark spotted with inbetween smires shades, floursent like carpaz in assorted colors no one uses and gives away. flseh shown and holy, wrecked for figs , but yet
mirrors laugh away ours, dividing character this to consume this to love this to spell and bind law with words. who are you exactly, the removal of the parasitic tree only a released as the bat shit joke. ( the american alottment is something like 20 percent) ( good cheap fig bars) twenty five cents at the poor markets. . )
did I ever tell you the story of how adam and eve came about.. you see god made a perfect representation of himself , but he could only smybolically make it to the exterior of a many himselfs , for the interior would understand , one can only be what the creation would be, a running away from what it is for what it wants. such that all of the apples and the covering fig leave could never put adam and eve back to gether. with bat shit…
in other words, god made adam and eve and when it came time to answer the question… it went like this, ,,,,
God…. so

Adam…. well …

and god stamped his foot and said..

God… Wrong answer

and this went on for about six or seven or for however many times it would take to be that pissed and make the old testiment…
untill he finally had to just let his children be and learn, for he was nature in his demeanor. he was storms , and Adam cam into pastures,,, and shelter, and knowing the creation of children, and the response of self discipline and then money, and then science, and then faith, and then his psychology, and then will full creations in fascist mass , and then……
any way.. get the joke ,,,

Wrong answer….

and I stare at the cigarettes and stare at the lust and stare and stare and the hand claps and the composer effects vibrations waves and the energy is without panic, and the life with/ within rumors only sometimes ,
“ never our hearts enough” and then I hear and see more the the tragic makes we bold and the poverty makes me stronger. and the love brings me home and the heartgives we kinder….
and I never had a point…
the rumors are declaired and the loathing and counning is leveled at the false head, and mixtures are way democratic, and histortoic is the mentioning of all. ,,,,
can you tell I am in love,
the date seems of me and without , the hands are reaching into the jell which amasses t the bottom of a gear about to go dry,I exclaim to cause and reason, watch as the only protest is the enslavement and the highs growth industry is the private security as aposed to computers linking the intimate and natually mixing… ,tide,,, tided by wrist and ankles alike, pig tide it is called, funny that the pigs tide people getting carried away…. never giving names and landing longer on the system. “ fair share of abuse”covering the coverage…
new and the net works.
poetic and prisoned.
I love you…you who’s children stare back
from the mirror for whom they look like…
and history repeated
never the same way.
.but with the same tellings
…. tail signs
ahead as behind.
Single coiled spiral the intellectual animal..

Actually God had to split one enity to make sexes. that is why love is two polarities of one spirit.. and the impotence of lieing… but we come to the path more than the answer, it is the question which must be learned… path… generation trains generation trains generation…

eat as I bow
prey to the automatic
little planet
seen inside myself

another day.. aware!!!
and there the day
arises to understand the day..
here sitting with learning , through the forest is the tree which holds love and kindness, peace and understanding , it is alone with all the rest of the mountain pushed by sight from outer space to be one big splotch of green. I should want to make amends with the truth. the spirit is only there and weather it is understood is beyond the daily slightly. I can see one way only to have the truth slap me in the face with the reality. and there is myself learning the learning what facts lay in the road are only the one which follow need and support the ego. I need further into the trees to know. and there is life … understanding one’s lessons . and taking the ideas from the whole. most said is left by the side with the menaing lost to participates, forgetting as we go.

And what is day
surrounded in plee’s
guilty to freedoms,
needing survival
when costs mount up
A severity is country and pide.
I go to work
which works
backward to the individual
I want.
Possesions of character
taunting . Jeering
from the side. a holding
a placement spirtually occupied.
and it is just life
the lived verses
the pursuit.
so with a phone I must start again.
with a car I must start again
with developed talent
what chances are real
music , my hands
the confusion of being tired
the honesty of choices.
Where else but America
where is need met.
for this “exceptance”
self divined wishes.

I have searched the world over to understand nobility, purity and the truth of man’s nature. Maybe it is simple as man takes care of his needs without ethics and without civility to others and that is nature. the rampant disregard for future through the actions of greed and deceit. But yet that is not peaceful. and even law inflicts no moral demand. We can manipulate law to cover any truth as legal. making no real law. only sides and more sides; while we argue humanity suffers.
As an Artist I feel responsible to live culture and direct the future as I direct my life through my art. Composing the morals into the culture; advancing cultural. A high ideal I know. but yet I have lived this high idealism, suffering for my own rebellion to understand what has not been taught to me. except through meditation and intuition. I have found much peace in the ways of the spiritualism. I observe and wish only to stand up for the ideals of a spiritual responsibility as a world unity…
for which is the balance dictated by our technological society…
It is humorous That this ill-educated man I am would choose to stand up for ethics and moralistic view. But I have finally to feel there is no more important creation I can enact. for true feeling is make within the world equality and not out of plottings and schemes. the plot is known and reaction is automatic and simply understood. But yet an enforced change to mankind would only come from the human with nothing to loose. From the bottom up. Big business runs the world without the people, without meaning for the children’s future.

but it is another day. and I had no energy to be alive so I slept. the dreams ran around in my head for the hours I spent walking through different events I can not remember. help me oh lord without love I have no energy. I am old and wanting . like there was never a chance to be alive. I know I am wrong , but then a love called and something inside smiled and awoke. and I wondered weather it was love for which I lack or am I just so depressed the manic voice is triggered by the love… are we all so depressed we can not think. are we depressed because the world’s problems acosts us everynight on television. Or are we depressed because of the denial , looking at problems and forcing ourselves to forget them…
I want only to live.. I want to celebrate the love of life. and with love we can find peace. the world knows that peace some hold on to the piece of peace they have with all there heart, Some of them are of the material riches and love and peace are all they would want to preserve. but at the cost of others they choose to deny. The majority of mankind is material. theyhave jobs and they have thir love. but theydont have the power to control the future theyhave only the peace taken from live taken by the absence of power the humility of the slave…
I want only to live. but in living we must have truth.. in that we must have action , there is no peace with denial so close to daily thoughts, such that we must focus on blinding ourselves.
and another day

I mind a dog. a four legged Pitbull. she smiles softly with brown eyes from the bed of old laundry. Her joy; to run outside. searching out the smells which give emotion , story. give adventrue to the gray dulled Sunday. I smoke and listen to the noises from the next room. A movie about war ,I can tell from the shouted comands and the backward counting. just before the rocket lanch. Sade is the dog. I am Ken.
Who’s knocking at my door. a matin soccesse picture plays on the video machine. Life and more. the city of new york must be the most documented in the country. the south bronx, Brooklyn. names I have never heard the origins of . buthave seen enough in flims to almost know my way around. the over head subways. the endless brick buildings. the well planned streets. it is a land away. and yet life.
harvey kitel , so young , with his strong hold of friends, all filled with longing and Italian, filled with relgion and guilt and blame. Ignornace documented. the Ignornace with conducts life. I wounder if anyone really saw themselves as this flim makeer again told the tale ultimately of the Exiltentualist from Nausea to No way out… he knew . I wonder if anyone else did. It was life. The smells from the poll. or the grass and down the path further then I can’t see . so I call sade her back.
Harveys girl tells him of her being raped. A long drive in the country. where no one can hear your screams. Harvey pulls away. visions floating through his mind of the brown haired girl with a bed for room decoation as a reaction to the rape, to her telling of it. with disbelief. What you told the other guys he says. the denial and lack of compassion. Sade smells a dieing bird and bites into it bringing me its life less body.

It you know the movie… you look for a nice girl. or your heart settles for love inside without equal on the planet.
and there is a reason we are loveless. sade and me. we get to much of gods adventure. it is everywhere and our minds have fostered our beliefs. more than my mind has felt its emotions. do god and nature fight? Ignorance…Sade barks at footsteps. I hold a lover in my vision, the place where I dream until It replaces reality.. Humanity conquers Humanity. my dream out lasting reality, but enjoining spirit without the connection physical , myAnna-bell, My Clarity. Sade smells male and female. got a cold fever, want to met. emails and dog shit.
Can’t touch the owner. but can have the dream.

Harvey can’t change realize change . he can only react like he is. naturally, while she has books and dreams…. each loving for there reasons with there imaginations, maybe that is one of the reasons for dsyharmony. Loving with imagination where it is just nature. .. one of the ghosts tell me so. How long does Love last?
When I am at work the day is country hills and vales off in the distance. I work on a hill. putting up thin cement tongue depresers like clapboard. the beauty is not interrupted by the loud pound of the nail gun, Its forced air deep plunk creates the other side , anohter side , god, nature and industry guess you could call it an idea. but it is not a love of thought, the thinking is kept at a minum, it not the pleasure which represent nature. Oh my ignorance is slavery. and Enforced slow evolution of mind and body. my mind dulls working on the wall , looking at lines. sometimes I forget they are there and reason leaves. I am dog tired and just leave, it usually rythems perfect with the rest of the crew, I am one of five and we all quit. Sade’s tail wags so hard her middle curls obseenly. to run after being trapped in the room while I was at work. she is my thoughts. she is a freedom to follow. I wish I could and run smelling testing and pushing I wish I was natural. a dividing line is the fig branch.
the sky stays gray.
I live in a little room in a large building full of little rooms. the walls , made of metal, stopping nails from being hangers, are unlogically taped with drawings I have done or flyers from performances.. telling life. A Bozo rubber figure sits half lotus at the bottom of the lamp. a square wooded brown base supporting four collums holding another wooden square holding the fixture in the center , a fifth brass colum inside the first wooden four. Bozo’s back placed against a half oval polished brass bass cover; reflections coming back dulled and golden. Bozo always smiles. On the other side of the coulumn from Bozo Is a whale in minture, a toy , where you push up the base to move its springy arms to dance and sway. You have to be really good with the toy or it just falls to one side or the other, like a bullet to the brain ; instant and without romance. the whales standing body flings. the drawings look like notes about a project one never finishes. thrown sup quick. I want to leave this place , it says to me. I can only stick things to the walls which can go away leave no mark. One little room.
Do god and nature fight. How did I get in the middle. the fig is my favorite food. Composed of just enough bat shit. flying through the night blindly. I do not have the same passion I had when younger , these words remove me to a place where only the doing matters, I have an old high. a muse which works without working. lingering inside distant movements the typewriter pressing down, the day moving on. slowing tides of not being for which is in the outer world , a no one with long hair, the older guy feeling the attention, the paranaia, then meeting the abstract, telling stories to mark the day giving writing to the poets. some staring with youths confusion wanting to walk side to go where I go the places and adventures I do alone inside to be a dog. and others older stand around looking at all, the lust ,the city , the outside here I am talking of. going by… the lust is without emotion. is replacement. and is finally to blame on both god and nature. our thoughts having to be stage to be trained with such that not all get , for god or nature fails to explain like industry does. to teach for a reason. the reason in both cases would be peace. technology should rhythem with industry. Hard scorning eyes try to look friendly staring off into the distance when they talk ,tell about getting drugs, and who pissed him off, who ran away with the money, what “so and so” is going to do. and look at that set of honkers. his eyes shinning for a moment. turned up at the crows feet. and sip at the coffee. with the rest of the street going by. everyone writing down what he does, sade gets right up and smells. love or not , sex for reproduction. her tail only swings back and forth slightly, stopping now and again to become straight and stiff, as warning and time to be aware.
The room has a fan. Blowing constantly in summer, when sweat constantly reminds of secrets and lusts. where an encounter under the right conditions, gives the friendly wanting. where desire comes with all new friends in the sexual game. I like you. lets deny each other and have sex.
the following is taken from a journal.

there is time to stand.
love forever to moments.
today and away
Leaving where fantasy
forgives the worse man
from hurting
forever for eyes promoted.
here . You. We. look without breaking stare.
Understanding intricate love
hidden quick knowledge
known and left alone.
abuses of continuance.
Soft solitude.
and all the captions in all the lands, make light to your
eyes and fire.
Oh fair, in frame and fortunes
ill perverse exchanges
the cancer to cure
pain to purity
where nothing else remains
there is love.
alone , untortured by life,
Unity strength heart and fire.

What consumes the place with stones
and stares
facing “civil” wares .
Basing Progressions
on stagance.

I get three seconds of a love.
I get three seconds with a heart

anothers object my souds sight
what anger is quelled knowing.
what fire is stirred.

spirit defined
Flowers infinite.
how heart consumes
the pit and place.
yesterday I was standing
with only a heart
to give and today I am self teaching
passion rules for it’s own ends.
Passion complete diversity
She is home, with attachments
almost daily do I feel love
in eyes and trees
and coincidences
resting and arresting
dialogues private but psychotic intimate
knowledge training possibility.
and children litter the worlds
it is hollows eve. rampant adjustments.

When it is only anothers arms and solidness, which answers this need of mine for love.
Holding a crowd, balences passions
scolds and obscures relevance,
Here feeling the world with odd numbered
hands flesh gloves.
I am scared for the future faith climatic
from sights let to reverse into despair.
And the transcendent passion reminds of innocence
for even as the last love is first
all love survives.
Hid in another eyes, chastising my inablity.
for lessons relearning, for answers
relearning ,

And welcome the night . a small town defined by history the center of Putian classicism , Salem.
and our party of five living.
Our party of ideas which could get , if in olden times, Hung.. Just by Idea.
and five walked ancient, in love, where hatred
placed task , killing corruption for enforced prejudice.
Lacky collum authority
turned a hundred of years latex
and it is closing time.
Police , seven wide, on horses, cleared the way ,
certain factors standing still. to the onslaught of police beatings which would have been
Standing still to the horses

Removing the Mask

Artist the rebellion
to show honesty the cause
I have trained in humanity
without college or scheduled coarses
but by the hand
to see and the heart to feel
I have been trying to survive
Early consciousness
Cultural Opinions
and Moral Hypocrisy.

I wasn’t yet part of life
every angle commonly accepted
of time I grew
disrupted the honesty
purging life from wholesomeness and left
beauty arrayed
like stains on cotton.
Untold while Dressed in priest robs
Somehow I found my actions with this Pen
the only humanity I could join
and by ninteen was on my own
without friends with only transient equality
Everywhere a traveler’s piece.
always going somewhere
Never staying anywhere.

the country peels away slowly at the dirt
Leaves rustling
going no where.
the sun fading in and out of clouds
no straight lines in wood,
Nature and conscious.

I have so many things material proving not worth.
A moment calm in falls colors before the ice and rain to come.
All moments encapsulated , beyond what sights and seasons portray.
a weak man should never consider the moment
for the length of appreciation last as love.
Or maybe he is the only one to.
But it’s power and insight is wieghty to the strong.
The strong who meet each others eyes
Challenging or just daunting to all when alone.
Strength as perversion.
and it is told
in rumors
to the clairvoyant.
I am weak for my strengths scare. I must hid wisdom for it is calculable and denial of time.
I follow nothing to write , just to sit peacefully in the wind’s sound tract.
the earth in full heat, and the Mother never wants to admit.
what shall winter produce?
Images, statements come without reason but remain
in relevance , retardant rhapsody replicate. waiting for never again.

The air makes joke of my mood.

The air makes joke of my mood.
Peeping out of clouds and back
against a proposed conversation with God.
Atribution to tone and alert nature.
A paranoia Maybe accumulating
but the animal “the forest wide”
accepts what is controlled
and what is nature.
A Lasting point for some sane man
Pretending to be insane,
through and including reason.
off and off and off and off.
Slowly the bus goes to Hampshire
I feel this prejudice of knowledge.
within me , cause I let it.
I see myself as an actor
for a response to trauma
escaping home into the thoughts
and feel paranoia
the off shot of clairvoyance
and vibe as contradiction to actual energy.

zzzzNovember 9th 1999
Ageless designs of man follow course
the saddened are sadder
Remorse for age declining strength.
I sit among leaves. golden crispy, reddened with age.
and it is warm. New England country side facing my self
wealth over innocence and what amasses is fact.
I have never been able to see the ends through facing pain.
Like my five year old self tearing away from life leaving behind
What is realty for truth isn’t so confined.

Arms Made Lofty

Arms made lofty
Warrior strong
amended from Guilt.
devoted passive yielding
Arms made Lofty
cast unspoken
equality familiar
mystic hindrance
only the man allie
fearing panic and retreat
so lofty can only cry.
armed poetry hangs aloft.

That is the funny part.

That is the funny part
to sit watching a street go by
Until such moments as touch
and in all of me I can see
particulars aside
for a moment shared
is it connection , it is connection But fair concern comes first or yet . Movering sodumized by the greed to be heard which leads attractions. Mine who wants someone to care about finally.
But she walks, slow with a slink, for the clothes she wears, I think late night turned mide day, quickly.
She walks with bags, strength showing, holding a radio tightly, weighty on her shoulder. blue canvas bag, and red fish net stockings slit high enough to kill buisness men. Her short dyed blond hair yet says nothing.
Eye make-up thick over done.
shielding a small sad smile.
Strangers launch greetings passing
and yet I see her, the mirrors of moments
crimes street sense, comparsion
Only for my image replaced.
an hour for the may
the concerned pace of self.
Black leather half length, blue loose top.
but a moment’s event to see
all.. or of the many.
is my caring and we break
am I just seeing.
What love comes is those women I know
what hearts I’ve seen on a sleeve.
I cherish
a smile can shed off a jacket of skin
and moments.

She saw me. also
Saw me seing , Knowing
It is of beauty to see beauty
and we smile only as well as we’ve cried.
A block away, she looks in a store for a friend and first I thought I was wrong shopping I thought . recurrent times of personal denial
one’s reading “tempted to doubt”
and she comes back down I thought. I get up Look down , see her coming.
and cross the street I she had no one
she would take a break in the park
not really if she needed me she would..
you see Love mixed
I want to care about someone.
and she needed me, I fell automaticly and denied
what streets innocence we prey never to harm, but into the beast is pure.
in tone not to cry alone.
Age scaring my automatic experience saving my heart alive.
Time I want to forget and give.
her boyfriend kicked her out with fist and hell’s words Maybe but alone.
My heart knows love from loving , I curse, I figure in .
My love is tainted because after we loved, I would have she would have .
passion as the edge. alone.

It is another day. what day. August 27, 00. I am alone with my thoughts Alone with my confusion. hope is at present a rumor of the times I have given and lost. in short form I am working construction. I am in love with another like me. Her life more pain filled than mine I feel. Raised by alcoholics taking care of her mother at a young age. her past the look at beauties curses. like mine in part. the users creeping on every side. Until love is a use of time and body for other than the sharing of spirit. with her I am alive again. and with her I am again the fool wanting secure love without time. I am stupid. looking for that which can not be but of me to share. and I am not able . and she isn’t with me right now . I feel so lonely.
But yet I am only living another day. in the pain of the past, in the absence of security and the hopelessness of love which left long ago. but there inside of that a man must survive. so how. I want to love her with all the resources of my love. and yet she is inside of the same depression I feel a lot. It is chemical and made of parts we can not control. Eating sometimes is enough to cast it away, some times it is drugs , but they only work for a while and you have to sit with people just as depressed to consume them.

On Broken glass fields
by Howard Tides
On a hill side in the country stood a house. Old and lonely against the hill, for the back yard though wide with room ended aburptly with the base of Mountain. with no other houses around it. It housed two men. well really one. for one lived out side of the house in a shed in the back over looking the country beneath it. . It is a big shed but not big enough to be a barn. and like the house . all the windows had stained glass in them. And there is where our story start.
the stained glass had many beautiful colors and pictures. The reds and blues cast light into the house shed intricate designs making the furniture seemed colored calliope moved across each room with the sun. but it was hard to see outside of the house without opening the windows. That is why when the state trooper knocked at the front door of the house , Albert didn’t know who what there. And called out comandingly , “Who’s there” for Albert was a small man, in his fifties, a widower, who lived on the grounds with Paul Gore, his handy man and the maker of all this stained glass for which Albert sold at auction. They are partners in the this buisness.
of pauls work.
but paul never left the house , Albert sold the work , dealt with the clinents, showing pictures of old work to the Prospective clients, when their was any. People paid for the right to be on the waiting list.
intricate , and sublime, the cfolors ran through pauls fingers, (((((research glass sculpture. ))))
reds and greens, small pieces made the work. creating depth. understood pains of glass composed into pictures , rosee colored vision.

Paul was renowned and there were orders for more work then paul could make. When the trooper knocked Albert was just going over the books Paul had been missing from the house for about three months . albert had been worried for sometime. paul did this especially in the spring when the flowers were in bloom . he would leave with his sleeping bag and take off into the fields, leaving for weeks at a time but he always came back . and rarely left the house afterwards. paul just made glass and read foreign books and slept. the trooper called back

“it is the police. Can I talk to you for minute, It is about a certain Paul Gore.”
Albert opened the door , kind of shocked to hear Paul’s last name it wasn’t like he ever heard it spoken out right , always paul to him and others who occasionally came to the house in search of their commissioned pieces. Albert couldn’t think what it was about.
the trooper stood all dressed in blue and with his gun belt shinning in the sun. His black hair cut into a close crop, he was holding a notebook . “Is Mr. Gore here.”
his head back and his legs spread, but still looking comfortable (as that would make me want to fall down, but he seems to handle it nicely)
the tone demurred hardship the messenger man. “Would you come out on to the porch I would like to ask you a few questons”.
paul steps on to the porch and sat down. the air was crisp and taunting his nerve, the wind played into his hair greyeing and long.
the crew cut remained standing . “could you tell me what relation Mr. Gore was to you”
“none, We are buisness partners”
“when was the last time you saw mR. Gore?”, .

“I guess it was about three months ago when we got back from a trip We had taken together to bury my sister. you see I couldn’t go alone I get sleepy when I drive to many hours.”
“did anything suspicious happen, anything out of the normal.”
“well yes. Kind of but it mostly concern Pauls attitude”

and there it is a chance on a story the nature of man it is and not . For the man missing is of the body and nature is not.

and my stumbling mind , telling the highths and depths.
Living for those failures when heart wants to make and fears. the making.
what is that, and I a criminal against what would be my love. and in that
awakened ..
a simple man must not fight what is alive within him.
and time ties harmonies together. slowly within the ability to attract I am lost to the attraction I like and want she is me inside and I can see it. it, this feeing is not completed by me. not complete in me wtihout her.
and yet that is the flow , or maybe it is the error trying to love self like you love another.
granting that love is true or the feeling the melting of vibrations together is a reality. the harmony of tales and legends.
and it is the criminal which wants and never reaches the standing grounds of being . I would wander away into the absents. and walk the blind of time by living only for the pleasures, not wanting the nothing denying the energy, blindness inside and wanting violence. my acking soul to life beyond this body asking for the right to replace thoughts with feeling , moving like the dancing. exchanging views with the vision.

It is funny but to have life . you must know and re know all of your life. Here it is seen and known. and here it is seen and known. but I have left behind such knowledge cast it adrift for the complexities it offered, and subconsciously, the pain caused by having sight at all.
Sight where as regarding the abilities to see self.
A self sight I have only found when in love, or loving. Or when smoking weed.
there were days when the thoughts become more . where energy makes it’s mark through the sheer changes which can accompany a human thought turned feeling. Fleeting though it has been at times It quickens and forgets others for this life. This wholeness. and I have found happiness and lost it many times. for it was even subconscious the being happy. To make continious strides daily thinking here ,
nothing to follow or to lead.
the escape clinical and
fostering faith.
technological and complete.
but it is a creation all the same the making of mind to tides awareness. I am happy for seeing the happiness, seeing how that alone leads what is. to break it down. to scorn my thoughts of their respect is trivial, one says who has sank in on equal with the majority wondering why we would torture ourselves with tears. and mark the sand with logic. The devil .. choac of emotional interplay the hippies of our time and the displacements our.
that is of course what I am talking about , culture.

or three women and a man.

one man is sexual with one women he doesn’t love, and one ,every now and then, who he does.

Streets turned away at angles unmemorable. He just knew. Watching them pass. the orange lights spinning off the coal black of the road. the continuously numbing white line down the center. An imaginary AFX race car, that he wasn’t even holding the controls of. Jon Orwich could imagine anything. the hours poured by. His life, he felt, was hidden. Hidden by the front glass and the door, contained for customers, contained in a secret place kept away to control and hold only in lonelyness.
Each night the traffic, only, made a special place in his heart. Proceeding like some abstract human consciousness. It could be just one big demolition derby. any second the idea of a car and its inhabitance could wash away in the telling of bent hoods and jammed gears replacing this semblance of a peaceful society. He was often amazed at the fluid motion . you take your turn now after the light goes green. you let him pass even though he gunned the engine just after the light switched. Red to green, peace from war. or vice versa love from hated or hatred from love.
Everyone going on an important missions . traffic continuos with only slight infractions of the many opportunities it offers if only one was to loose the semblance of control.
A distance dream is the driving Jon mechanically watches his taxi turn after turn. Light after light. the drive to the airport, again and again and back through Boston town to the Cambridge side. The beautiful sky line reflecting off the Charles. Miles apart but moments together these two sides have different rules and different county seat. Cambridge, Mass presented Jon his home and fares. Two hundred and twenty five dollars for the right of the radio and the open streets. Twelve on Twelve off. four in the afternoon to four in the morning, the city of Cambridge, was his to run …..mysteriously. Picking up the left over of the bars ,Toting around all the educational professionals and students he could fit into his Yellow Chevy Impala. They never wanted to know him , and never could handle the thoughts he gave them when they did ask. So bound by the sophist which they are to worship and him so plainly lost to his job. Tired and confused by the same sematry he loves. “it all just works out” he thinks. Other drivers complain. get angry. there is peace in letting things just be and forgetting you have any control when the truth ,might often just be, you don’t.
Each ride pays but some try to get over. His change neatly folded in his pocket. Some rides are on the way to being longer roads of a same solitude , the ones to the airport. the last semblance of common Americanism is his taxi. so there is function and purpose. If only a remembrance in moments while claiming the ticket at the airport. Most don’t remember the ride. they get in drunk or distracted and the transporter is turned on. the street passes by. The ride is convience and costly but closes the gap of time; most love. Quick to here; Thank you and don’t touch me; endlessly people passing leaving nothing. Jon checks the back seat just as they are about to leave. Collecting money and checking the back seat, drive on, wait and drive more. the hours pass with a cigarette to any orifice which will take one. Drinking white smoke with coffee black.
Driving leaves to much time for thoughts. escape into traffic and shinning lights. the numbness helps to forget. She was seven years younger than him and together they made a beautiful couple surviving together for two years. but finally his depression and crying took its toll, making thoughts acke in his heart when he did think. He was the criminal matching the eyes of his brother cab drivers like they match the police. slow , down turned , seen to much eyes. sensitive for the exposure. For death is real in every movement. the tunnel gives the view , the highway at eighty. white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. one turn into the wall. one swerving across the fast four lane highway. Killing himself and others. but just himself he would want to leave, he has no cruelty toward others. A man’s heart is the telling of strength to his pain. he can not run into the arms of another women fast enough. men are trained for war to give themselves to cause. He is wound up over the love that left him.
His rides sometimes are women who he imagines, getting close to , imagines they might notice the five foot ten man in the front seat with the long brown hair. Who might notice the small soft stuffed animal which continually rides night after night knowing the road with him. but they don’t mostly.
Until one day about a year after jon starts driving. a women enters who he doesn’t automatically want . she is slightly over weight but pretty Her light makeup rounding out an ivory complexion. She gets in at Potter square just off mass Ave. after coming out of a club. It is two in the morning. “Please take me to JJ Foleys” another bar in Boston. Which, when they get there, is closed. She asked to sit in the front seat getting back into the cab. she say to go to Jamacia Plain on the other side of Boston. she asks if she can “see” the stuffed animal which comes automatically into her hands. Light tan and silly looking the moose gets petted it like it was a cat As she talks about the bar she was in. the men who tried to pick her up and the friends that left early. Jon listened as he always does. While looking at her chest , large , firm. Then she started to ask questions about him. Where was he from , did he go to school. Mostly the rides don’t ask anything but when they do jon replies kindly and with truth. he could lie making up glamorous goals and astute observations about what they would want to hear. to play the street angle the greed infested shallowness. Life has been to short for him already, to wasted on facts he can’t remember. By the time they got to the party she asked him if he wanted to go in. it was two thirty and most of the good money driving was over. so he said ok having made two hundred dollars for the night. they stayed at the party for about an two hours. there was a Ska band dressed in rasta clothing, all colorful and Dreadlocked. the walls were covered in sexually posed red and orange figures in oil paintings. he drank punch which contained some kind of hallucinogens . he later found out was called Ecstasy. They danced together, he was slightly happy. the girl knew almost everyone, all batting eyes at each other. her telling them he was a cab driver. Flaunting it like the ring on the merry go round. A body, he saddened, a use, he saddened ,a shinny ring. the prize . he is beautiful and used. she is a tale in the ever flow of life. those you have, will be used. aware we should be you me. alive against the mind which wants to be alive and peaceful. That wants and deserves love but is fooled into the love which knows not use. We each are alone in the world casting the ruin which is our lives into the love which must learn to be alive against all odds. As she presented him as the “taxi driver” he felt nothing … nothing. She smiled, sweetly touching him. he knew he was a uses. But it had been a long time since he touch any one though. a loneliness he had tried to imagine as a monk hood within technologically conclusions. He thought about his true love. The one who mixed all his imaginations into one. he twined and never thought he would replace. Others remained gratifications. Such is the way we write our obituaries. Giving our lives in innocence.
and then she said she would drive with him to get the cab back. she did . the night echoes his remorse,
for the guilt felt
the absence taken to the heart .
love left like a mourning patient.
he drove alone back to the garage as she followed in her own car. he thought of the moving ways of turning roads. to real turnings , flashes and blurs leading his vision , the road moving his car with accuracy. Patiently he is separate from the movements, the steering wheel. the road, lights, traffic, it is a Zen and very peaceful at times. this in a drug. he is devine , feeling every moment streaching time its self. Entertainingly the spirit revolves.
he opens his shirt the hairs of this chest lay like on a women the pectoral muscles so pronounced. thin soft Black hair, his ex-movers body showing. the air creating a dream. music coming in from other cars and thoughts, her Anna , his true love on his mind. a romantic fool , who dreams of love given as fulfilling. holding it like the jewels of life , nothing more nothing less, who shared with him and not with her self. holding back . he fell away, and there was explanation , after two years. she never asked him to marry her then she left.
of that is what he thought for himself. all lessons seem to come over time. Red can be turned to black if seen through the blinding glass of time, really they fought a lot and one final day she hit him and he burst against the wall bringing plaster and flesh to a meeting .
Reds flashing from break lights. Chaos , Rap , Godsmak coming through the air and strength to withstand. He fills his cab with jazz playing on the Saturday night radio from a Boston college station mixing the world of black against orange. Light poles pass by, stop signs and yield. park and don’t, the endless visions, lines from electric and telephone cables thin black against a falling day sun but at night they are spider webs; mysterious and demanding.
Greetings From the brown attendants at the gas station, while the women pulls in behind are short and casual. they look and smile. These are only people jon really interacts with; station attendants and coffee pourers and the twenty hour store guy. they keep their own romantic plots stirring. never exchanging names. it is the seconds of time remembered , and pieced together, never explained. But they think they know. the street wise knugges, which he backs off with eyes, saying don’t say it.

she buys cigerettes, accepting the smiles as she receives them. the attendance’s are over courteous.
she buys two packs, fullfilling some transient understandings, whole and seen. video age removing doubt. he hates it , it is the smallness of life to endure, trying to remove the sanctity.
He thinks of his own morality. and opens the car searching for her eyes, she automatically see them. He says “ Did you get me some” as she holds them up.
Driving wears down the soul. Entering a truth every one faces, but controlling emptiness is a balanced knowledge known to the few. Exchange and tenderness is the only heart. away into the thoughts and masses, a heart is human fraility and saving grace. she comes close while he is putting on the gas cap and kisses him Quickly for the audience. .

The sad , over worked Arabic eye finally look away.
Her eyes in that second seem deep with the knowledge of an instant unity. Changing for the moment , out side of life. “I am to you now without me. Caring not for myself in the infinite . to relax in pleasure, you are to me. Escaping into your body where escape is partially allowed . while the escape costs. Diseases are less scary then the pleasure there is infinite instants in Aids or reproduction; because each is a conspiracy to death and unity.
two people know the attraction instantly, usually. they feel the movement. to swear beyond being civil and human, passion envelopes the beast and the spirit. But it is the instant which joins two lonely polarities. two who are needy fulfil what life often can not. telling through their eyes whole stories. and the ills once inflicted are discarded into ecstasy.
Whole movements of mankind , endless and infinite in culture and history. Giving self without time , a spirit finds connection, a movement physically living the dream , touching to replace the touch. and what beings we are. For we kill with our desire, we kill the beautiful. We use them for their innocence until it is them who kill with their beauty. which one are you .. the beautiful or the abuser. Jon is now the beautiful. for she is the abuser him the body her using him for the shadow cast to her friends at the party. and now as they leave the gas station. Him knowing her wants. he is amazed at the luck but ashamed of how he will get it. he will not say words to posses her. he will only have sex and make the best of it. for she is not his type. and she is asking him for it. fooling her living life with romance. she really doesn’t feel.
the lot is filled with all the rest of the yellow cars. it is very dark with only one light in the dirt parking lot. the cars look calm for the first time during the long night they have toured the city. Moving through the streets, never stopping , open for all to come though and never see. now are stand as muesum pieces waiting to start again.
Jon gets the moose from the dash board and thinks of his life. this is different , a different women but the same as she is not that bright and very drunk he should drive and he says so. she lets him. “lets go to my place”. and they do . she is quieter now. the night telling her weariness. she is waiting for him to say something . but he says nothing. her hand moves to his thigh and she comes closer in the car. wanting him to kiss her he thinks. he moves his hand to her bare leg and slowly moves it tendarly up her thigh stopping before her sex feeling the heat and she spreads her legs wider. the heat is tempting but he only wants to tease her. . the light turns red and they kiss all tongue, his hand moving into her lightly and out to grace accrossed her breasts she moans and touches him softly easing her hand into his pants. he starts leaving his body and the car behind honks. Shocking him back to operating a car on the road in the city. with life all around. her hand on his flesh , opening his pants the rest of the way going down the street , he can hardly see the road while she continues without even looking at him she bends down and places her lips to him . then taking him in her mouth she lifts her mouth up and down , and
transending with him. his hand in her moaning warmth. hot almost burning. they are on the highway crossing town on starrow drive a trucker is on the other side of the car. he can not see the driver but the truck remains aside for longer moments than the speed would be normally on the empty highway. he gives the car some break and truck pulls ahead. she doesn’t notice . but starts working the flesh with her hand comeing up for a sloppy kiss. It is to heavy the toung to deep and to face to face without sight of the road he swervs alittle. and must push her away. She’ll not even remember tomorrow. he thinks. and they sit separate for the rest of the drive.

The Heart is man made.

This heart is man made.
put together with string and tape
staples and excessive bits of cloth
mended with novels of anienct
statesmen and poets of honor.
This heart is man made.
Treated with time and devotion
created around idea’s and
fortified with experience.
It is made to withstand it’s self.
to honor what has been life
with what is ultimately love.
which gods call peace
without creating.

the Video Re-View.
Oh so many movies. my head thinks in half second splits. Maybe it shows, but I no longer care. Movies are the modern day great novels. Themes making a moral known , if it is good film ,like a good book, filling our lives with lesson. the same lesson the rich of the roman times would come to arostol to hear. Traveling through hardships from the outlying areas , braving storm and leaving life for. Much like our transient lonely lives of now. Moving to the money across the innocence of mankind’s knowledge.
so the movies pull by. my recorder echoes into rewind. and I tell you of videos. what have I watched.
okay, the list.
where I might give a teaching list some day but I can only give a secondhand l look right now.
Every Other Sunday.
Oliver Stone . who has shown time and again the art of pleasing the emotion and reason with full scale media. Against the grain of “they Won’t understand that movie” comes this Psychological drama.
Which I say is a classic for showing the stages to mankind’s changing. the media in general. did stir ,this poor mans circle. which if ,I know it everyone does. My universe so small and self believed. Is exposed . through this film, the tries and tellings of a man in persuit of himself against the meanint of time apon the changing of a man. women, child. of self sameness. and courage reaching into the infint. and the physical is only the all of change. I came to really feel apart of the whole from the film, a certain shora of self is released the conception of Change and a Changing body come together. A statement of time.
Once again . our national art is tonal.

Yes once again I must admit my stupidity. What I have not seen , for the litureture sesection has no monitors. I had not seen .
The Postman Rings Twice.
If you haven’t, you should , it is the coldest love in time. She was made for him .. plot plot plot…. Frank Capra. ??
there is a thought inside which I don’t want to consider in my appointed depth.
lowly can I hid of my own prostitution of time by presenting it… just a minor point and taken never to heart really, failing to live gives. life, happiness, contained in its own mercy survives. and heat echoes , through ceilings the muse to tell endless insanity, and that is now.
that is this time… Here changing moving just ahead of the movies. ??
So some other films, (leaving out how they were shot , the beauty of each , for me is just in the relevance of plot,to myself, and to society)
I love De Niro. “night and the city”
A man facing dreaming ,reality, and the “victumless” irony of having a heart at all.
Nineteen Eighty Four. Orwell’s book
A society of do or die. where the materialist are winning and if you have a real loving heart you are condemned.
and DeNiro again in Brazil.
Other films I watched for no reason except to watch and fill tired hours and dream about making a movie. I watch sometimes to receive the forutnes and morals for my life. I watch the angles they create inside my life to learn and reflect. Maybe you are the same way so I offer this new section to the magazine . Casting my actors heart to the poet who lives to know . I am a romantic character, an absents and gain aloof to
the meanings from old man’s road and casting songs of heart to experience. Loving kindness, a heart sees to believe himself.
It is when one wants time.
the movie has rewound.

Another day.
I am aware of the invalid nature of my life. I see the writing in front of me knowing only part of the life is lived , my words are to be your adventure and they are not. they are lifes adventure played through us. I am concerned with the changes that life is withstanding , mine and other as we live. Here in front of me is the self learned. Experience the teacher mostly. Makes a fine line guidance for its student. but the teacher never stops and the student gets bored of never learning the lesson. over and over the lesson start again and again such that I have thought the same lesson a million times , has it changed am I changing or just consuming part of the lesson without really learning anything.

This day.
and the night was without merit. Except to sleep l I dreamt of my mother saying she was going blind. She wanted to move to Australia . I guess because of the Olympics.
I am in the morning and slightly sleepy. I am still thinking of Amie. her large brown eyes turn my head like never before. Is it because she is young. I don’t know she is the first in a long time I could completely understand enough to love to want my life from the moment I met her. even though the world went the way of instant romance. which is complete love. forever and kind. I am stuck in thinking of her . like I am stuck writing and being the entertainer. stuck because I have worked on it. It is my life. should I write the wandering of the streets looking for her in minor glances. not really wanting to see her. for I would be seeing her with someone else. that would hurt and I don’t need the pain. What am I talking but the oldest proof of life through magic of love and transcendence.
to move the heart through love to research out how we challenge our selves. I am moving within this medium to know the force of excistance. her is life in front and what do we have. we have only our love given and complete. she is in my thoughts to know myself. And the only way to know my self is to be naturally involved .

September 24, 2000
The day after I have turned thirty five. A drinking day. a romance another women, the truth. and I am turned into the loneliness like a shadow beneath a tree. What is the rest of life compared. work ending soon. I am trying to remember peace.
It is another day beneath the tree and special as that tree may be it is yet
another day. What cries exist from being at all. what tales of innocence here to hurt and there to be freedom.

october 7,00

I am here waiting for the world to colide agasinst the lies which torture its merits. for it is coldly wieghing against my neck. I see the falling off of minds for the chemical crazes which lead us into peace but only like the donkey and the apple. And it is me who has been the first experiment into this land of lies. So many times I have been the one to hear what falseness man is to other men. Using each other and casting them into the faith for which there wisdom comes from to know the answers but never to ask the questions them selves. For the fear of an unresolved truth. I can not be alive for you. and yet you would want better me than the sqalid confusion for our own conscious. reading the philosophy without reaching through thought.
an I me to the flow endless, my words slow and taunt against what is to be, I am an illerterate, anc compound , some justified ignornace, to enrage my self.
to think without .. to move with the causes and exterminate the being which be’s it.
and what am it to think , non physical and intime with it s own ways, watch as I push the envelope sanity is marked with insanity.
Simple , anothers feelings ,
here to mark what I say , we don’t look. and yet I do, we do.
for trouble me not wise phrases and master. I feel my own lacking , my dis amd harm , my viloence without physical nature, and this is a me to tear awake the out sides of being me. what walks , and talks , what knows for other, to stay alive without cost.
responciblity has no call , for the reasponcilbe ones have died. months before my birth like the father back from the war. to suicide. uncle to war walls to cross the thirty fifth.
and it is rage wear, and calling the nature to defend , the always mirror image.
when you wander through your own thoughts and passions, desire is a line stirred and tranferance into a land without limits, I am you to day, echoing throught drunk and disorderly. calling to self to comback. laughing at the wind and the sins. what imagines the calling home. in echoes we get to know. adandive where it flys. I must remain alone.
I have found and lost. I have met a set of live women and lost her. my life is violence and agasin, i Iill for the remorse like to be in despair is the logical conclusion. escape my love to the wind. for there is love forever.
violence cast away all alive , many women. many women. and none. the fall calls my time of year. here in my eyes. what tells the innocents. I wirtie nothing and am the calling of the last oand the lost. here spinning words forgeting self with matters of conscious , and to accept the flaow and forget all. for the rememberance of the civil social self. whan it is my inner change which gains some historiec commuication , it ts the ablitiy to define and less to find poetry. Cold and small , humility cast the traction home. a known within the doubt. and sand stands like trees laughter.
my slow pull form the continius killing factor and a sigh of pretension wearing into the life, .
like characters to be understood and demanded of . and what is hope allotted of time. what is work ad work , what is to improve , hope and faith through the abstract for culturally charged change.
and what change does this cell need. I have little heart left. I have changed into a robotic movement of success. and never can I succeed. for to hear the callings of the simple man when we are a million trillion strong and weak for the voice to arise from the crowd , that the hope for a flower to grow peace, would be the surviving voice of the many .
and so another to rise and call himself to the war of the mind is only one more, what I call the dirt soldiers.
Someone is to say I have walked drunkenly for the last five to thirty years. that is the first revelation, here in Irish birth and English pretension the mental warrior is alive, I have wasting nothing , Casting self to shores and positives. “this exist, no matter”. taking away the ill-relevance. and marking my self to me. Waiting in circles of beer and consumed by the stick and freedom , “so to remorse”. Yet being the violence from which I speak in the telling of it. is oddly aware Self is defined by definitions. Watch the changing of man while he recognizes his real power is small. Alive is the transcendence in art and literature ranging the outer with brushes without solid lines. Reaching ever into the abstract and redefined nature of the minimalist. the lowly man speacks. though I hate him, I warmly accept his comments the disarranged face of the self. acting his character like the forces of mankind rest on his puny shoulders. and even yet with another inside of him, another with larger frame and might would not over come this lifes poles by yet just strength. now watch the over size men cry.

and we stand in the mans holdings .
what is lost of self from loving. and there is life.
I listen to the day arise , and want the sex, but what more the life, what beauty my lover, her spirit matching the humor of me. she body , the indidvivual of love, I can not ever find the words. Went we talk I get the intellectual love I have always wanted in another, the transendance to understand , and she is alive to other thoughts, without concentration except to deal with the emotional , Reasonable life thought with morals and action. needed.
and what is my heart gone,,, I have given and wonder about the giving only be cause, the rest of my life is very nervous.
It is what I am seeing, this wieghing of giving,
A man by eastern standards, is the thought driven warrior. Wandering through life. has no pounds, there is representation and knowing the singluar man knows only that it is alive, against the war. but man is, the thought driven energy. Such that I would accknoledge my actions in side the thoughts and feelings of love, like I had always had them. as terms, witut feeling , but I know the feeling s if only fleeting in clouds, or pictures made in oak tree barck.
It is gloomy out, it is cold and winter is coming.

I was talking about the giving, of man, is it man and not women , no , it is only the thought form , Man as the warriors, and has been driven to give up his rights to his love.
the power of which is trained into him to lose and gain by. channeled so they say by product.
And yet what is life.
she is outragious. keeping her heart alive with the thoughts merit for which she feels, it is excasy, and I share that with her. we are both intelligent a
nd inside the muse. The passion to live. I drink to the words.
I in the flow of life. find the heart to stay.
and their we sit.
our hearts are our hands our hope our lust, and then for creation a mind wakes to emotion. what to we purpose. and guides. I can to do ,

20 November, 2000
and so Today I am a man walking without the stablity of knowledge venturing into what is really man kind with is the tale of doing not what is known but what is unknown.

the mind is taunt , ,
Entering will, what is heard in the hall, complaining , I am taunt wondering the muse, which gathers and leave , which saunters, and they sit, the fools the fools, and here I am smiling , but mostly it is to tell , the stories. people sitting.

five people sit in room. a small room a bed and a chair, the floor. five sotries. one , two three.
people telling life. what can I say about who they are. what do they say for themselves I could contain them with characters. wrapping up what I would think of them, and what of self, inside the holdings. in the self knowing, what peace , I can feel and smile while I am yet. party..


and it is another day another love another moment to lovelife.
my love is now thinking I can see the way through my own dysfuntion. I am looking and as my life and writing preposes. one can see if they look. I am looking.
My girl friend I love.
my life I am starting to love.
the facts of my torturing mistrust. I have never been allowed to feel the pain I have created. for it was pain of a youth. It was the pain of being thrown into a world I didn’t understand. And it was a pain I couldn’t understand and maybe no one should have to but I never looked for happiness.
Do we all feel those first years like our parents have disowned us. I would call my mother and tell her of the life I was living. I first started to tell her the truth. the plain self involved truth like I would tell my friends. I told her of the drinking and smoking. I tried to tell her of the advances from men, who offered money and bought me drink , about the lonely streets for I was scared of everyone for strangers all come with secret discoveries in theirs eyes. and insulting referances when they heard I wanted to write. I was in Boston with only the people around who wanted something from me. through I would not have been as easy as it was. I was taken in by a gay man who let me sleep on the floor.
I was a naïve child.
but now is different . the women I love has the strength of character I lack. somehow I think the two of us can make it in the long run but such is the fear of being so close to someone. She fullfils my fantasy lover.
I love to be with her. her body is the softest her legs are strong and tight. I love her and yet it is only my love which I can challenge. for I am a paranoid in part when my love is involved for I mean to build for a loving life . and yet I can only mistrust who I love. I don’t want to be hurt again… even yet even as I dream of her body I have started to mess up this realitionship some how. It is my mistrust. and yet I want her so madly.
I am afraid . I have given my love to have someone to love , instead of loveing who I am. here is always the human problem. I would want to make love to her. to spread her legs and lick where the love can send her hightest emotion of ejaculation. like she sends me. I would to hold her my life inside her and taking the unity.

And another day arises from the ashes of the old.
I have become a new man .
I have found fault and failure in my thoughts and actions . I have found myself. and want change to be my life from here on. what was wrong ? the nature of a trained seal is to be a trained seal. I was torn from natural love by the paranoia imposed on me as a child. I have now a new light coming from drugs. for my thoughts were paranoid and my reasons controled by the past . maybe life is easier because I have accepted the faults . I want to never again drink like I have been over the years. never daily from now on. never two days in a row and never to drink my wieght in depression like I have been doing. I have drank the liquid to match my pain , and from now untill death . I will have to remember that and try to change for my energy is the most important element I have. I am energy. alive.

and there we come to another day. where I have walked with only the rumors of a true love. the rumors were my challenges. to live up to . instead of my heart being heard. I am the adventure of life for the reason of survival. and the reason of heart. once a heart is made to know its self such is the living more alive to being whole.

And here is another day.
the holds of time make me see the thoughts plain with highs
I watch the cold and evil hate me.
I am not part of the all.
and I sit . I hear the voices of everyone.
a women who sits drinking. slowly wanting Her face wringing. with lines from the drying years. of fifty or so , the waiting of mind. I hear the testosteron. .
I hear the misery.
I hear children lost . to the tides. of wholeness. and pain remaining dispair over the fallenkindness
I have left my blood.
and there we ask for time to see the energy of times. a momment. we barely listen to …..
and the costs our lives, the cring moaning. times of love lost and felt. the mental anguish, lands I can not do anything about. and smoke.

And to night,
I am alive with hope.
because of what I can withstand. watching as I have had a good day. the hope of strong. the peace of the stubborn . why am I to let the world into the heartless. to hold.
she says I will never understand. I love her but when she drinks. when the last five drank.
Watching them walk away.
watching the holds. ….
watching as I want. To hold the heavens. alive. watching heartless. .
survival’ s civil calls.

I want to feel. and here is the time to find. what I have missed before. I see concentrations. running new. like the drugs are working. but I am also in the middle of lives. that are not mine. I watch. as I let the control be lead by the love and there is my truth . and all thruth. the love must lead. the emotions are the truth. and everyone knows., then we all are in denial. \
and there I am to write further. I am to watch a friend , whom I have given my love infinite. Sort cd’s.
and I watch her leave me. while the edges are of drugs so hard that I never. saw in the city. because it was more obvious. Everyone was more . drunk more rude more assine. It is covered by the pretentious glamor of streets and I am getting . .

the welcome of my insecurity.
here with hair fair and delight of poets eyes smilling a million lonelynesses.
and here is the next life, and smile for the telling of time is a matter of awareness. The studio is inside the mind. the next creation of the enertialcall. is mine.
and what is the year twothousandone. what is the techonology comparing advancement.
Am I asking questions? am I feeling different, could people see the humanity being lost cast away from our dreams. and it is a dark night and I am feeling dark,
I have the telling of my depression. firstly, I am like a citzen of earth. and balding.
I am my problems. this lack of attention span . this choking on the logic. this telling of heartlessness to children looking coldly at their parents. And yet , get over it.
the Cynic of cause.
let telling .
I match the personality with awareness. I am here as a wounded solider. to see light and not be able to see. What heart holds it’s awareness.
I can see the perfect nothing. my reason , the early years binding nature to disharmony, I walk without attactments. here a story a reason. here.
I listen to my friend , a women , I am living with.
should I talk this way. should I tell of the talk over and over in conversations.
Sometimes I hold her, and I feel the perfect unity. maybe that is evil to feel possesion.
to hold someone and walk with them where there would go , forgetting. and yet , I am remembering. even as she is my possesser. I am having times unknown.
I am struggling with the concept of love because I found someone who scares me. and make s me cry. I wisper quietly. subondienately. and she likes to be without me. she gives her self to someone . else. I could …..
scream. . but nothing I can do is write right now. nothing is true. it is all alive and a lie.
that is the way the world is to persevere the lie we will do anything.
to preserve……..But mercy. is to know life.
She doesn’t want to talk to me most of the time. And I just want to leave. to go play music to write and love. She and I are all sex.
unless you consider why we came together. we think alike. inside what we want is our hearts natural known. …
a Spirit, a love, a tide flowed between us that we could notice and feel. and there is life.

And todaay is another day.
I watch while I am looking into th ehead.
here inside thoughts walking with no one. my heart is saddness, the heart is alive. I walk to the next ways , I will take very little. and nothing.
my guitar. my computer. and a bag. Here is the heart which once given has a hard time turning away. the world is in front. what heart am I to give to myself. the hope is only standing. is only holding on to the mercy.
Last night I waited for my lover who wants me not and wants me , today a different world . I am not loved I am not to be cared about. and tomorrow.
and tomorrow.
I will again be free.

Staring at the window. and walking into the home of love…
I t is alive the telling of my sweat. I have again taken downs. I have talked the essesnce and I am being punished. and I am not. for the making of my life is me. I hear my life running without me.
she is my love and my death. when she kills herself I am going with her. Tell me your dreams I will try to fade .
slowly I can see no choice right now.
I only hope she goes away now. why did I let her treat me like that, and colder answers cast the man. I want to feel as I feel . small and nrervois against. I want and have given up many times. there is no reason for it, but I can’t think right.

Movie Idea.
a man falls in love with a women.
they move in together.
then they see each other.
totally different people . one with a very bad drug problem.
the other still trying to find sanity within reason.
in the end they find unity and sanity within the cures. .
life of the future. ending with the birth of a child.

scene one.

a room.
funished with a futo. and a lamp.
a music al theme goes. on
she is leaveing.
the room reamins emnbpty.
she comes back with a number of men, they ae diferent levels of intoxication. each trying to uone up each other.
man one. comes in talking
M 1 -When I see the mirth in the eyes. I am happy.
it is sad of me , to will and follow the desire, . as my glass are so turned, for when it is love … it is all. I give untill I can not see and blame like has always been blamed of me.
and cry.

goes stag right and crys.

M1- the tranqlity comes of its own survival. the natural spirit facing the devine civil.
oh and that waking of a million people to the conscious which is beyond conscious. which is persued in dreams and the exchange of the milllions. I wonder weather theyh. they I would ascribe . is but the trabeled soul.
And I wish this place we all about me.

( music starts. picking tones , and the lights which were bright become tones of brown and blue in the back ground. )

it is I who would panic, (with a small laught). it is I would look for the isolation of the soul. I who would stand up . and yet. there the placed gun survives under scrutiny, and the worrsome ways of coroporate governments. revolve around the minisculeness of societies shared humanity. the liberty of man in his mind.

and we pick up with another day.
tonight I realized my girlfriend of the last six months is a whore. And she is flying from room to room. Holding her pussy , as it buys her addiction. and she is so cute it gave her the addiction. and it gave her nothing. for herself.
She walks in sutle ways the loner. inside she is having dialogue. I hear someof it . I do. I hear the agelss child being strip bare of clothing,. where sex is a guilt. and we fade into the hunger. She is not the only women I have heard of in this floundering. Where passions never amounted to more than sufferance for never was desire known. that which gives the day challenge and joy of life. taken from the child who would find only guilt in desire. for beneath the surface an abuse of a sexual act fullfills the high. Orgasum… and fault of joy.
And I now hear.
Only my own insanity. and I write without reason. there in what we say we tell our lives with the automatic allusion’s prewritten prejudges and pyscological commentary. I met a negative man . I was standing in the bathroom. liquid in slow fast desending drops came from red slits with eyebrows. cringing and uncringing fingers stressed out and in, slowly forced but furious shaking hands press the water deeper into pours; and infinities.
And it is today.
funny how a day can be found different.
I come home after work to the little room alone where I live , I am happy to be alone after the day with people who have no time to really Talk or really where I refuse to slow down just to fit in. But it is another topic I whish to approach to night.
I said I cmae home into my room and remember nothing more than wanting to turn on my stero. and relax , I played some and sang. I couldn’t remember the day if I tried.
Then a point came into my mind and somehow I feel like the last months I have been following around myself. talking to the walls judgeing another and myself.
that is what I see right now. thinking.
I was just doing that , I became a judge. you stood at my door not knowing me and I have to wiegh you, You I don’t know.
but that is just another thought because earlier I didn’t think that I thought about the changes which came over me where I lost some of my stablities. for my stablities are a mental excersise of self exposure and complete escape. I am afraid of love comitment cause I have been hurt hard often but alas years ago. Not here. and yet , ,,,

And what moves through me is discovery for I have seen what lies. and what is to come.
the apprication of self is a first discovery , and yet ..
where lyes the inspiration but yet is lived.
how I am to not connect only by the misconnection. to remember self and pride. to regard the movements of time as each revealed moment of a truer life. I don’t need to go to the drug doctor. I just need to live without restriction of someone elses idea. of life. freedom is inherent if we follow the intuitive and loving self. there is the magic, disreasonable and foolish.
I am in love. have been all my life. until that is represented to another. and there like has been said, is the crux.
Why why why..
One only has to be themselves to be loved. I am to write , I need time to write and play guitar and sing , that is my balance. I have followed the road and am happy with it. I do drugs with a guitar in hand and it is fun. when I don’t I am bored with drugs.
they bother me and make me emotionally slow. and disparging about what ever my confidence would want to speak about. There I said it. drugs suck…
But we can not avoid them. They come from everyside and slaughter most in their way. Crossing out lives and disembodying people. And they come with every market opening.
into each life. Slowly easing the pain to be alive with the questions. why why why.
Why would the people of the earth let the world be distroyed, How can I see the image and not feel it. and with each feeling the sight we , as a people , evolve in mass through television entertainment , and self enlightenment.
But I would not give you the reader the sight of my fear of late.
I have walked the edge of knowledge with the sight of myself. Crazy into the dawn.
watched the moment of telling hights. but with the love there comes the responciblities. with the sight there comes nothing. it is with the action that we are questioned.
I found myself removed from me. and even the way I say this , states that I didn’t do the removal. and yet. I did. it was me. In isolation, we forget all we had learned to keep ourselves happy. and exchange that for loving someone. Such that our lives become the representation of the love we knew without control. we reverted to child hood and forgot self respect. And I would not to give you to look at that.
I think only her and I could and still come back together but I feel her stronger than I have ever felt another.
the fear created bonding , and an exasperation.
and we went lonely nuts. together feeding off each other. isolating into that corner we both held so close as children. and I love her and might not ever love another as much. for I have never felt to akin to another. but also have never come to that point with another. we crossed the line , and yet. it is to know that line as over and the truth to go the rest of the way is there.

but it will never happen again.
But what of now. now is the future. a mommnent to know beyond the times allowances. I have no point and sit to type. lonely little thoughts as grand as endless devotion. just to type and construct where there is only the matter to know. she is gone and I live on.
I have nothing to think or know. it is now. the prozac has gone through my system and we are on the other side now. Normalacy. the darkness of purpose eludes me and I don’t remember why I am writing and know I am writing about nothing. the air is wholly devoted to the pain I have known for years. and nothing can break into my thoughts about. fortune or future, I have no dreams, it is awake. this blindness which my chemical “imbalance” creates. A sorting of facts into there corners.
and no facts no drive make these times of writing.
it is only to write
waiting while I am
for some comment to
make sense be-
yond me
and I .
What whole worldliness
is this time.
How does it compare
to the historic lessons of the race.
I am to get over love.
Historically we could comment on the Hellen of Troy ,or any of a million romance foiled, and we would be telling the tales of lose. One sided devotions, or tales of lovers who run off. no women has ever loved me. Because I can not answer questions very easily.
I can not choise readily, or plan and act. I forget who and what I am sometimes. and fail to make a situration work for me. and can only hope at walls of invisible memories. and no women can stand that. I am hopeless in the long run.
What makes these event questioning. or am I just analizing the insanity to only see the whys of me.
If I can not like the person I can not love them . sometimes I feel I have never liked any women. and only some of my friends. It scares me. for I do not accept the actions of ignorance or passions around the disreasonablity or pure self satisfation of ego. I E anti social…

lets see, one friend I did have was Rafi Sofer and then it started as a street story, I and another friend were homeless. We had decided , each in our own way to forget the system.
We forgot our jobs, and everything else forgot us. the rent turned into sheirffs and food become the wanderings of Free kitchens and pantrys. But the days werecreated with music. And he played on the subways and in a band. everything was fine with him he smilled and knew something in his devilish mexican eyes and Rasta black dreds. his white ish tan and mexican heritatage had landed him into Harvard and he had quit after a years worth of full scholarship.
I had just returned from a short trip to germany. a girl over there found here eighteen with free drinks. I chased. found there. said “Ich bein In Guits” to the whole country from my first cab and left when times turned hard and I was not important or rich enough leaving after only four days to roam germany and France. to walk through allied territories who were once enemies of America. I felt like a spy. And the land looked like Pennsylvania. but I returned to america. Early and broke. such that My story ends broke and so why tell it at all. Except that it is in my head and I would like to .
You see it is of friendship. and now in my heart is that wondering over why of the last few months. I turned into someone I didn’t know. and then I look again at what I had, as saw myself turn “different” . because like most of my relationships I never got to know who I was with. before jumping into the story of them. there was hardly even a story of us. and we invented to stay ahead of the matter. Or at least I did. Inventing What I will do with the concentration Love and partnership always presents to me. I think of the unity as a completion of the sexual schrocra, a level truth admits and Is done with… Well. then I started to think about who I would rather spend my time with . who could entertain through dialogue and comments. whos wit was sufficient to entrance my hours into giggles . and I find only one or two both of which I am speak of right in the story. but there was a women or two who did the same. the last even when she did smile she was the ultimate lover . who I found unity and secrets with.

Unity and secrets. funny that, I look for a world subject from my personal life, and what happens. I see that a conspiracy is made. Us against them but created as Everything I have personal fought against. like prejudices and class character generalization and yet would worry over in relationships. The worry is the question. For it is that doubt which makes a world of politics deceiving. And here I was with another telling her of unity, and sharing secrets and she didn’t even care about the ultimate nature of thought and reality. She just wanted me. Not me the person but me the reality the money, and the highs. There was no room for much else for her. my thoguhts slowly made her think but to get use to thought is a cultural knowledge and one which smiles with education and hates the teacher. she doesn’t smile over anything that simple anyways. Reasons must to be elaborate for her clever mind.
and how did I start talking of her. Oh politics..
oh her. from where we start again , Yes. I have decided I have to look closer at my life and interaction but Even then I must reach further into the social realities.
How to convience the culture that our time is a turning point of the faith and harmony. We must meet the challenge with reform and reeducation. . the bathroom mirror looks back me back. So you want the truth. I seems to ask at myself.
and here we step into the subconscious reasons.
Denials are suppressed emotions opening them finds the release to make them stronger or go away. For what the mind is can never be all true, I , one soul runing the course of life can only psee this portal this opening of eyes. Wringing my fingers on the clenched causes and conformity making this tree of years I call my own.
even as I would not wish to make things so as I write them, I must see, why my “difference” for I went from being in love with a very loving women , who once edited a small part of this journal. to being with a stranger who walked the nights streets in drunken searches for Crack and other drugs. I same women six month from the day we met. I magine dealing with china during the cultural revolution. the empassitor changing the stance of a friendly land to one of enemy.
a bomb. is open sex, a destruction a finalization. and she let me have it with two men like our now ancient ending of Japan. One was famed to be Homosexual. and I watched as she pulled up from giving the other oral sex. Her eyes red and squinting from Crack looking at me; evilly. like a cat who didn’t want to give up it prey. His eyes were cast to the ceiling in infinite pleasure. and I have finally seen enough to forget looking. any more. It is only me I want to see. with that pleasure for which should be saved for love. Maybe she is in love with him. her is stumpy like she considers herself to be. men and women must find self equality with there mate. Her stomach widow webbed with soft strech lines from childbirth and a little belly pushs her waist line. She was ashamed of. and hardly ever would just lay back naked with. even when it is really hot and kept her shirt on during sex. making me pulls it up like I am raping her in order to suck her tits. But even as I fullfilled her It was not enough , I became different and little. not who I am, siting here not. with the confidence of words, and the jocular nature enough to go there. Confidence must face its pretensions to progress laughingly.
So I am wandering over what happened. why did two countries, so strong in culture and history get way laid into war. We had started the best of frineds. sharing our allusion of spirits and religion. telling of love as intertwined points of rapid straight comets.
Where did the change come in. When did we both become different I will have to go deeper into the story to tell the many facts. For this was not a matching of people as much as it was a rescue attempt. and then is when I became quiet. I found out how lost she is and easiely lead infact willfully a follower inorder that through cunning her wishes find success. So she rarely tells the truth. there is no truth. there is nothing. and the acceptance or denial.
I am going to sleep now.

and it is anther day. tonight I roam the mind of creational chemicals. and wander what I am , ffloating therough all that I think and have lived until this point of remark . that it is to know and hold which is power. it is to know and hold. I walk the ways slow and saintly and nothing comes. I walk without power and comes no .power. and what is life asking for my the stand …. she is off , and I have let her. while my heart is inside her, knowing there is life from us. for us.
and yet. I am romancing a stone, the astrolgical even said , to the virgo , you walk alone in this loveing. and watch the step of what you are.
I can feel her spirit walking ar0ound in the halls. I can hear her crazy laughter . her intelligence. leading. I love the way she settle problems I bacm one , I was in her way, and she forgot what love we were. without all the shit. what caring, and whole ness the two of us presented. she wanted her desires. and always wants her , first..desires. they should say that is increadible. that one person can see the way clear to know anything. she knows addiction. without it. she denies. I denied her. I lost. but yet I still have the car, she must talk to me again. ….
that is my only hope. I can not go up stairs and get her. tell her she loves me and all this is for a dream we remember with good food and classy living.
but I am so wrong , from the flat bed of a ford telling me the stars, and nothing more but the heart. a cold coming off the metal and I press my back closer to think I am magical extracting warmth.
love and madness
the hope lost among the ruin
of sight.
give and lose. what tellings the lot
once seen whole. I would kill to know.
when I would get over enough to be free.
I want to kill her. I want to love her.
I want to forget her. I need to find that peace. and can not.
there are roads alone on the telling of time that nothing creates life . that only a strong heart is heard above the roaming madness. that madness is my heart. and I am the only alone . I am the one with no one. and there is the facts that I am without real. friends I am lost.
I want to die. because I can never see simple peace. can not live with the recognition of my life and am sorry , I want to kill myself. and only because there is no life wihtout love. and crying doesn’t help any more. the facts can be so misconstrued to come back to one man only to know.
there is no life. for me any more , now I have seen the end. have realized I would give everything for a happy face even if that face was mean and cold to me, such that there is no joy to my life. and alone we face the infinite. people get along and stand there ground for nothing more than the facts of their existences make them. I can not live without my heart and I am heartless. I am waiting for the cold truth to slaughter me, and I want the death to happen and get it over with I am so insane. to love at all.
and it is another day.
she is gone , I am only left with the starting of being like always, today is another day. another day….. it is funny just last week I thought for the first time without the hindrance of my chemical depression. and this week I am back to the old. it was the drug prosac creating the peace. I harmonized with life. accept my place and created the lasting thoughts of the hours. and here now again I sit. thinking of a women who doesn’t love me. thinking about a life I romanced , a fantasy I created in my heart to match the fantasy I was living. she was fine like pretty and intelligent. I was lost to her. I became lost to myself and would , even now give anything to see her. but what would I say. lets get stoned. I loved getting her stoned , I loved to see hope and peace in her eyes. and wanted to help her with the life she is leading . but I am a fool to love now. because she is gone from me. gone from the world , with her back against a matress and my heart is dead. and dying. I wish I could be different. It is me she ran from because of my depression. I have lost another.
because of my drinking and smoking. because I didn’t do enough. because I did not have all of her. to me. I lost her. she is somewhere not thinking of me. not wanting me. and yet.
I have thought of her all day. each moment a moment to tell myself. about her. thinking I feel her. knowing I want her. and I am lost on that , feeling. she was cold. and yet she was loving. I can not make up my mind, what she was as soon as I realized how much she drank how many pills she took how many secrets she held with other men. I became the worst of fools for I let her go. I wish she would come to me. and hold me. I need her , to balance what is my thoughts. into reality. and yet it is stupid to think I will ever hold the same place in her life. I am crying inside. I can not shed tears anymore outerly. it does no good. I will walk to my appointment tomorrow. I will show up and my social worker will ask questions , I can not answer. I will cry and that will be that. she will offer nothing. I will get nothing. and there is life. I am going to piss read and sleep. laterms Maybe, and for that I will never be afraid or in awe for pain of,

Part 2

And again the day changes the crying donw, the nature more known , and the innocense won.
Addressing you , myself and everyone.moves the hands he staresck, grand mother would give him and his brother. ange t , like the big orgsilently at.
Loved angain, and lost

it is jan twentyninth, a windy day, and the organe of the snow trucks seen from above, distract.
My coffe is in place, this me, this man on the boards, with cunning, and self escape, looking for nature tha
and right now is a second made from postures of vict
ums . the computer keeps moveing the words such that I don’t always know where they are going to go.
Ranmpant , chaos, I am so lazy, and as a race against the seconds, I wonder about what will come out , the wind, takening my hair for I feel like a child for a second, I feel free for a moment to know there is an organization for child abuse, and A living cure for the hardened survivers. I am .
but we look beyond , we are the survivessrs, we as the still suffering, a dialect most.
but I am never my heart enough , and as I sit the bills pile up and man and machine can not excist with man and loose , loose like living home and comforts , as meek as they are, can not live with only one meal a day, the starving, a mentalin equality with vision, I can see to do but can not see, to see, Is this product, am I viable in the market, is anyone listening,
these questions should not be mine, these questions with prosutited answers;
I am stoned for the future. I am I am I am
Herrained in living the living I live for the reasons of my openness, Guarding dreams from abuse and step fatherly trotures.
e where I walk in the sshadows, where no one goes yet, where I am rest
even these words are not coming out right, the computer moves them around like I am revealing God, and that can not make sence,, a little mosaic to make the whole , as each are responcible to tell. Our stories are never our own, they are never cute plots and summed up sessions with answeres so implace that our hearts never never roam. Write obout yourself and there are never any worries aobut research , and cunning, I can not write about , a self. other really, but I can see how one could be part of many and through there we communicate, weather glasses are involved or not.
the life I lead is spinning plates, amorphously cold and I know it, because I read it somewhere, I know why to it is not because I am cold it is because I have a problem I am cold, I am trying to warm up , but the first thing on my mind scares people , make people think I am lying. and sometimes is just a cover up for my nerves, but I talk of the Character as an artist I am.
and I am also known to have told you I am a loser, and let you forget me fast. It is also equal to saying I am cold. and I don’t want to hurt you.
It transferes into Mirrors.
Tell me how I am to feel at all except to feel. To run the course explore and digerss, some times. It is funny that a million hours of pain could lead to one moment when we awake to find we are not just , not alone but that we are part of a universal silence. It of some to venture in denial so much that they can never get out , covering our pains in self reproach and chemical. But yet life slowly gets better, with each day, but remembering to be in the moment accepting the problems from denial and opening ourselves to fact.
I have stared longingly at a vision unachieveable , like faith. to enhance and not bring it to balance.?
or am I wrong, where sciense meets mental health. Effectively using the e abused heart fistachievements; depression might be just mental evolution.

But to hear to much the shamin , mistakees, One for all, one choise and movement not to bring to balance the hearts body whole. For the jungle is mad with experience. each moment and emotion place and time, the ladder lived. Possiblities, and posturing. pinicles and problities never to register or resist.
Heart ladened imortal, as spirit asends, to alll made one, heaven your meaning here, for if not.
Someday never comes unless it’s already here.
We turn our minds over to a cause unlike any adventure. Made of haert and rock.
we , the few who would to forget knowldege and step right to right, how perswaided the remark of scholars, brainiacs birthing brainwashing,drunken bastards, instead of just Drunken bastards.
Starting herd the long story would be, a tail of kind I have walked without liv ing, because I didn’t think anyone would listen. and even now I and slightly ajar at the fineness I feel knoing there is a world , and the boundries I have been living are the rails of life,
no more , no less. Equal the air. cloud hope resolve mercy, unity. choise words rampant from the cow herd barn further and further , casting scepticism. where is
time. I must sleep.
And awake again, the next day
the city talks what it can
to those who listen,
Either small or big, or elastic.
And it Is the raw power of release , this presentation to the obvious, elaborate mstreatings, a mask which provided no cover.
everyday , jusdged and worth, and judged and worth, while the sun brightens for a minute, sheer summer light,
and it is to think yourself important, to write , it is to take on airs more apparent than yourself. Solitude and fantastic, energies, cast without doubt, the muse and wander lust, skeptics be damned, the hill alignes with voice looking for release, beyond the horizon in side a day to be ,, our hope measured in tranquil seconds , what is to mattter, and When starts the day..
and sometime the Capitols stay. while others leave trail of losses.
My head is again feeling stoned bake frogotten to myself. I am tossed and frozen in blinding emotions. Success just moments away and I can watch it with open clear eyes, or I an slowly enhance by eased nerves, I am nervious, I have gone out and watch my Body shake , while thinking o fmy desire, and I have watch as I could not naturally act. I was caught up in a flow of unknowns, I am insane staying away from the passion. I am restrianing. because I can not.
She is up there, over there here , with me sitting, looking out into thenight, My parking lot, romance with romance. For as I would another I learn for myself. You my kindness away from me, in a love that we lived with smiles, and you cry with others, Who is right. We never cried together ,
but when I get stoned I also get sexual, horny, I remember love lost,, I blame and fantasize, I get nervous an socially

unacceptable to myself. But the week next will come, and tomorrow is another day . I just started to reember there have been others in the world and are others everywhere. I am holding for the fordces need , maybe this art of writing with be focused enough to stand without me , in long range motives, we stir ourselves wo see pieces falll together. no matter the distractor and misunderstandings prevoius.
And I know each paragraph is exept from logic right now and still I let fingers fall without corse and dialogeu, natural streamss I think soft. nautral ways , untill you come to a point, like maybe.
Left off from the availible self, is only this working character, standing on the stage of his own ego, for pride has built it , and the majority of the time it is defeated un wights of econmies, easier losses for the experiements , hard or soft results, I deas burning off the back of my head, why bother to be so literate, so I give a shit how this looks or reads, the poietry lost to the possesion of the unpretty. As I roam the child helped. the native of the body displaced, beaten to the mask, glued and dust worn old. I was reading of the Definitions of good. by arolstotl He spends a while confinin answers, to cause and product. and definition are everywhere,, this class is subsectioned into another, for which is good, and which is the particualer effect of this action.
Body man plant.
I hear voices asking the naute of beast to be pure, I hear others sometime .. more than I admit I admit, when pushed against a wall. It is to laugh knowing how human I am , how the intelligence can be so engaged to forget feeling, left to a mercy of escape thee is nonly feeling half bad, and in that half bad there is committing atrocies to natures acceptance. We storm to tell plots which denie the escapes further, but to read for no escape,, for the wonder of living. this plane this heart.
I want not to run , more because, I see than that I don’t , Even sometimes I think there is no where to run to .. no growth for a bogged down excistance, a consciousness on the edge of Armengado. for when does it begin, and end..
all ends in death , so death is the beginning, Between those sentances is history..
but watch as the confusion is purposeful and socially accepted debotchery is manditory. I don’t know if I will ever be able to warm up to a women without alcohol. at least in the beginning. please.. I have stopped drinking you know.

I stopped as in I haven’t been drinking.. I haven’t had any money, but ever when I did I was only testing the ground of the depression I hd gotten use to , the lack of real feelings that came with the drugs, and my history in blantant traumas. Sorted by aga we must understand.the parents never have known as much of the change nessacary to civilize civility, as much as our age this now of change and sufferance,, or obligation?

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