lodging at
fantasies, an inner inn, headed to a campfire; Love would cry, I would ask,
Love would shuffle her answers; so distorted, uncivilized, needing deaths—the eye
of the thug, the drug of the doctor, at pangs to survive. another coyote, a
pack of wolves, or laughter distinctive of hyenas. probing sanity, shaking
walls, looking at Behavior’s ceiling; aiming at self, promised to croak,
looking at mortality—an immortal spirit, immortal literature, presently writing
a memoir—so lit those seconds, so dear to essence, just in need of something
solid—most are vicarious, most are shaky, most are too insecure to sustain us.
the angels are alive, the voice is clear, been at me before birth—it feels like
me. changing outfits, like changing traits, like angry you did dirt; so careful
to explain dirt, in one minute, to decide against morale. at tears if … (when) …
another does in like manner—just a puppet, to a dear Artificer, knowing it
takes passion to do right. each needing riches, a reason to marry, but two
struggled, fell in love, sitting on castles, at children, out of control! much
to win, much more to conquer uneasiness, like stop, gather, harness each desire—such
failures, at particular biases, no one can manage those cravings; unclear on love,
what are boundaries, if one knows, it becomes rawness?
